


For the Birds

by MKittyUltra, PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Mutilation, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 87,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKittyUltra/pseuds/MKittyUltra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble/pseuds/PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years ago, Cas sacrificed himself to banish the world of supernatural beings, including himself, and he left his vessel, Jimmy Novak, in a coma. When he woke up, he turned his back on the Winchesters, and during the intervening period they’ve all lived their separate lives. Well, I say all - Dean has spent the past 15 years shoe horned into the life Sam has managed to carve out for himself with his partner, Lily, and their three kids. Dean is the odd jobs man around the house and does a lot of the childcare, but he lives, necessarily, on the fringes of the family, not quite able to let go of his life before. One Christmas Eve, Dean gets a call that will drag Jimmy back into his life. Can he let go of past grievances and reconcile his growing feelings for Jimmy with his grief over the loss of Castiel? Meanwhile, something strange is happening to Sam’s youngest son, Cassie.</p><p>For the birds (idiom) - worthless; undesirable; eg 'winter weather is for the birds'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Call

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Many of the characters in this fic are obviously not my own.
> 
> WARNING: This fic contains descriptions of the aftermath of a suicide attempt and several references to previous suicide attempts. Many of the characters in this fic participate in self-destructive behavior, and there are references to alcoholism and self-harm. As mentioned in the tags, at least one character in this fic suffers mild PTSD, and there are references to depression.
> 
> NOTE: I've made [a playlist to accompany this fic](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeSnHJqdxRxGhhR6rtWFxTOmXilaT5tXj) now!! There's one song for each of the chapters so far. If you've got any suggestions please feel free to [message me on tumblr](https://www.sleepyvulpes.tumblr.com/ask) and let me know!! 
> 
> ANOTHER NOTE: This fic was not beta'ed and a lot of the time was posted as-written, and as a result has loads of typos and such (there's a couple of moments I change perspective too I think). I'm really sorry about that and I'm working to fix it, though I've got a lot of projects on I'll do my best to go over it ASAP!!

Over the years it had become tradition in the Winchester household that it was a glass of bourbon that got left out for Santa. Yeah, maybe that was because it appealed more to a particular member of the household, and that might have seemed sinister, if the glass hadn’t been surrounded by home-baked cookies. This year, Dean’s favourite was the smallest; it was vaguely s-shaped, with little blobs of dough stuck on haphazardly. Sam’s youngest, Cassie, had insisted it was a dinosaur.

They still weren’t in bed. He could hear half-perfected scales and high pitched laughter. “Bobby, don’t sit so close to the fire!” he heard Sam warn. He chuckled to himself, and closed the oven door on the turkey. The kitchen was sweltering. He strode over to the back door and opened it wide, peering up at the sky. “Uncle Dean?” a small voice asked. Little Cassie was looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“Yeah, Cassie?” Dean answered. It was unfair, Dean thought, to call him Castiel. It had a lot of baggage.  
All the kids names did, come to think of it. Dean would never understand how Sam could stand to give them the names of those that they’d lost. It was a lot to attach to a kid, Dean thought, all those memories and lost possibilities. How Sam could bear to call his daughter Jess every day was a mystery to Dean. He never used Cassie’s full name, nor shortened it further to that one syllable that belonged to somebody else. 

“You looking for Santa?” he asked. Dean grinned, and crouched down so he was on the same level as the little boy beside him. Then he pointed to the sky.

“See that?” he asked. Cassie squinted. Dean put his arm around him and turned him to face the direction he was pointing.

“What?” Cassie demanded. Dean chuckled.

“Way out over there.” Dean explained. Cassie craned his neck, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and back again. 

“I don’t see it!” Cassie complained. 

“Ah, no! See, you have to know exactly what to look for.” Dean told him. 

“I can’t see anything!” Cassie moaned. 

“Not a twinkling light way, way over there? Just behind them trees, look!” Dean said. Cassie’s brow furrowed with concentration. “No, no! A little to the right – there! You got it?” Dean asked. Cassie’s eyes grew wide. 

“I see it! I see it!” Cassie squealed. 

“See what?” Sam’s voice asked. Dean glanced up – way up – at his brother. 

“Santa!” Cassie squealed. “It flashed red! What does that mean?” Cassie asked, his voice thick with worry. 

“He’s checking to see if all the kids are in bed.” Dean told him in an ominous tone. Sam gasped. Cassie squirmed. 

“Oh, Cassie don’t cry, it’s alright.” Sam told him, lifting him out from under Dean’s arm. “The first flash is just a warning. Means you gotta get to bed fast as lightening though, little buddy!” Sam reassured him, rubbing his nose against his son’s. “You’re wanting inside Uncle Dean.” Sam tells him with a wink. 

“Story time!” Cassie says, raising his arms in the air.

“Right!” Sam agrees with a nod of approval. “And Uncle Dean’s stories are the best ones, right Cassie?” Sam asks. Cassie nods and Dean rolls his eyes, but gets to his feet. Before he closes the kitchen door, he peers out at the sky one more time, at the sparkling stars way above them, and the helicopter in the distance that he’d told Cassie was Santa’s sleigh. 

Bobby reminded Dean of himself, the way he tore through the house and couldn’t stand to have something in his hands without pulling it apart. Except by the time Dean was Bobby’s age he’d had to look after his little brother. It was always a relief, to hear him squabbling with Cassie. It reminded Dean that they were just kids, normal kids who would never have to fight demons or be braver than they needed to be by anyone’s rights. He wondered if it did the same thing for Sam, or whether it was different when you’re their dad. 

The oldest, Jess, was the most like Sam; she was curled on the corner of the couch with a book propped against her knees and one hand wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate that was resting on the coffee table. Cassie was like his mom, Lily, who was sat next to her daughter and idly winding her hands through their matching auburn curls. He was all about questions and waiting for answers, and he could turn almost anything into a game. He was dark, like Sam, unlike his older siblings, and his eyes were that unmistakable Winchester-green, but otherwise that was where the similarities ended. There was something about him that seemed a little bit Castiel, is what Dean always avoided saying. When he blinked the resemblance always disappeared, and he could tell you right away that Cassie had his mother’s nose and lips, and looked pretty much identical to the way Jess had done when she was that age, minus the red hair. 

“Can we have cookies for supper?” Bobby asked Dean with wide, pleading eyes.

“Robert!” Lily snapped. “What did I tell you?” 

“Always use the magic word.” Bobby recited in a half-sing-song drawl. Lily rolled her eyes.

“And the magic word would be…?” Lily prompted.

“Abra kedabra!” Bobby shouted. Lily tried to look angry for a moment but ended up in a fit of laughter. She was slender and tall enough that she didn’t look miniature next to Sam, and both Jess and Bobby seemed to be going the same way as their parents. Before Dean knew it he’d end up surrounded by a legion of sasquatches, 

“Avra keravra!” Cassie parroted from his appropriately perched spot on Sam’s shoulders. 

“Well, that is a magic word. But I think the one your mom is after is ‘please’.” Sam explained in a tone that made Dean feel oddly proud. Bobby turned back to Dean.

“Canwehavecookiesforsupper, please,” Bobby asked again.

“Well, seeing as you asked so nicely…” Dean said, and ruffled Bobby’s hair. “I don’t see why not.” He went back to the kitchen. As he reached for the jar, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The only person who ever called him was Sam, but there was no way he was phoning in from the living room. Sure enough, the caller ID was unknown. It hadn’t happened for years. 

There were no supernaturals left for them to hunt down, no worried voices on the other end of the line begging him for help. There was no John, no Kevin, no Bobby left alive to call him and tell him they’d dug something up and needed him to check it out. They hadn’t heard so much as a peep out of any celestial beings for a good decade, either. His heart began to pulse wildly in his chest, so hard and so loud he could hear the rush of blood inside his ears. It had been so long since Dean had had a chance at hoping to hear a certain voice on the other end of the line, but he fought against the anticipation that seemed to be making his hands shake. 

He took a long, deep, steadying breath and answered the phone. “Hello?” he asked cautiously. Dean firmly reminded himself that he was not expecting or even hoping for a voice he was trying not to forget. Almost fifteen years. 

The answering voice made him drop the phone with a clatter to the linoleum floor. “Dean?” it had said. No. It can’t be. He stared at the phone in disbelief before lifting it back to his ear again. 

“C-c-Cas?” Dean stuttered, his voice thick with wonder and something that made his throat feel as though it was going to stick itself shut. 

“No – no it’s Jimmy.” Jimmy replied. Oh. He sounded hurt but apologetic. Of course. Dean could hear the subtle differences now. Of course it wasn’t Cas. It couldn’t be. 

“Wow. Um. Hi Jimmy.” Dean replied to him. Jimmy sighed, the phone crackled. “Everything alright? It’s been… a while.” Thirteen years, almost exactly. After they’d brought him home from the hospital, Jimmy had refused to spend the holidays with them. Said it didn’t feel right. Dean agreed, but Sam fought to get Jimmy to stay, albeit fruitlessly. Dean still had the trench coat folded neatly in a box at the back of his wardrobe. He didn’t get it out anymore. It only smelled of dust now, after all this time. Jimmy hadn’t called once. He sent a letter with no return address about six months after he’d left them. They’d still been living at the bunker back then. It was around the time that Sam met Lily. 

“I’m fine, I just… something happened the other day and I. I didn’t have anyone else to call.” Jimmy explained. Dean didn’t say anything, instead waiting silently for Jimmy to explain himself further. “I went travelling, for a time. Like I said I would… you know, for him. And me, but I know he wanted…” Jimmy seemed to sense Dean’s discomfort even with the mediator of the phone between them. Either that or he found it as difficult to talk about Cas as Dean did. “I’m sorry I never called.” Jimmy told him quietly.

“I…I understand why you didn’t.” Dean had been a wreck. It had been agony to look into those wide blue eyes and not see Cas looking back at him. It was the same body, sure, but the absence of Cas was obvious and painful, and it made Dean want to break things. Even though he knew it had been Jimmy’s body first – and all along, really – it still felt to Dean like he’d stolen it from his friend. That Jimmy was there was a sharp and unavoidable reminder that Cas wasn’t, and it had been too much for Dean to bear. If he hadn’t been so obviously frail, Dean would have done a lot worse that broken his nose. 

“Thank you.” Jimmy sighed again. Sam walked into the kitchen, holding Cassie’s hand. He took one look at Dean and knew immediately something was wrong. 

“Go put your PJs on.” He murmured to Cassie, who hurtled back into the living room to join the rumpus of getting ready for bed. He gave Dean a questioning look. Dean didn’t respond, so Sam stepped close enough that he would be able to hear whoever was on the other end of the line. 

“I ended up here. In Rome. It seemed… fitting somehow, I suppose.” Jimmy confessed. Sam’s eyes widened and Dean nodded. Sam gestured to take the phone, but Dean shook his head. Sam put his hand on Dean’s shoulder in silent support. 

“What happened?” Dean’s voice sounded ragged and strangled. His mind raced. Please don’t say you found a demon, please don’t say it’s something like that. Don’t tell me it didn’t work and he died for nothing. 

“My… my partner died last week.” Jimmy explained. Dean exhaled a long, shuddering breath of relief, though he realised it was probably an inappropriate response to what Jimmy had just told him.

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.” Dean told him. 

“No, I… it’s okay. He’s been sick for a long time. I know there’s a better place, and I’m glad he’s not suffering anymore.” Jimmy explained. 

“He?” Dean repeated with a tone of surprise. 

“There were a lot of things I’d been repressing before… you know… came into my life, and I was doing it all because I thought God wanted me to. And now… well. I suppose you can’t play host to the Angel of Freewill and come out the other side still lying to yourself.” Jimmy explained. Dean could hear him smiling through his words. He was right, of course. Cas had taught them many things, but amongst the most important was that if you’re fighting in the name of freedom, you can’t let anyone or anything tell you not to be who you really are. That was important enough to die for, Cas had shown them all. And might even have been worth it. 

“That’s good.” Dean told him. 

“Yes.” Jimmy agreed. “It is.”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!” Cassie squealed, hurtling into the kitchen, now dressed in pyjamas that were printed to make him look like a tiny green dinosaur. He attached himself to Sam’s leg.

“You have kids?” Jimmy asked with a similar tone of surprise to the one Dean had used a moment before. Sam lifted Cassie and carried him out of the room, with one more concerned glance at Dean.

“No, they’re Sammy’s.” Dean told him. 

“Ah.” Jimmy said by way of acknowledgement. 

“I’m guessing you didn’t just call to tell me about that.” Dean guessed. 

“Marcus was a hunter.” Jimmy confessed. 

“Huh. Really? Small world.” 

“I… I’m the only one who knew who’s still around.” Jimmy elaborated. Dean waited for him to continue. “You’re the only hunters that I ever… that I might ever have called friends.” 

“Jimmy…”

“I didn’t know who else to call.” Jimmy explained. Dean sighed. “I know this is a lot to ask but… I thought that there should be someone else there who, you know. Knows.”  
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb. He listened to Sam and Lily hurrying up their kids. He could just about begin to smell the turkey under the lingering smell of baked cookies. The fridge was covered in magnets that held photographs and drawings and little scraps of paper with hand-scrawled messages declaring a lack of bread or milk. Dean had never felt shoehorned into Sam’s family, but to an outsider it would probably look that way. He barely left any marks on the house, apart from the ones he used to hold it together. Sure, there were pictures of Sam and Lily and their babies everywhere, and the only one of Dean he kept in his own bedroom, but he was there in the pipes and the plastering, in the skirting boards and the hinges on the front door. 

“I didn’t even know the guy.” Dean points out. 

“I know. I… I shouldn’t have called.” Jimmy began to fuss. 

“No. I’m glad you did. I'm amazed you kept my number. It’s good to hear from you, even in such sad circumstances…” Dean mumbled. Sam wandered back into the kitchen, this time closing the door behind him. He leant against the table and folded his arms across his chest, watching Dean. He hadn’t realised but he was rubbing his shoulder, relishing the feeling of his shirt against the hand-print scar there. 

“Have a nice Christmas.” Jimmy said. Dean’s stomach twisted. The words and tone were too close to the ones he’d used all those years before, the last ones he’d given to him and his brother. 

“You too.” Dean replied, and regretted it. A nice holiday was unlikely given that he’d be spending it alone, from the sounds of it. “And Jimmy?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t disappear on us again. I’ll call you.” Dean told him firmly. Across the room, Sam frowned. 

“Really?” Jimmy asked. “Okay. I’ll, uh. I’ll speak to you then.” 

“Sure.” Dean answered, and the he hung up. He put the phone carefully on the counter and covered his face with his hands. 

“Woah.” Sam breathed. Dean nodded, still buried in his palms. He felt Sam’s touch on his shoulder for a moment, then it withdrew. Maybe he was expecting a resurgence of whatever had happened after Cas… Maybe Dean was too. He could feel something bubbling inside of him, and it seemed to be getting closer and closer to his skin as every second passed. Maybe he was only a minute away from those old feelings resurfacing. He couldn’t get like that around the kids. “You gonna go?”

“What? To Rome?” Dean rolled his eyes. Sam’s expression was a mix of patience and caution. Fatherhood had worn off on him. He didn’t look for buttons to press on Dean anymore, didn’t immediately start to speak. He watched Dean with a probing gaze that made him feel exposed but not naked, cared for but not smothered. He wondered if Sam thought of him as one of the kids sometimes, even though Dean had as good as raised him. “I don’t know if I can see him.” Dean whispered. 

“It might be a good thing.” Sam suggested. He was stooping slightly so his eye-line was level with Dean’s, and Dean strained to make himself as tall as possible in an attempt to recover a little of his dignity. “You need to let him go.” 

“And how is seeing his corpse walking around all fine and dandy gonna help that, huh?” Dean snapped. Sam recoiled and stood straight again. Dean grumbled. 

“It’s not his corpse. It’s Jimmy.” Sam’s reply was strained. “You know what? Maybe you’re right.” He allowed. Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam just sighed and shook his head. “Come on, you promised the kids cookies, Uncle Dean.” Sam clapped his shoulder. Dean smiled. 

Later on, after Dean watched Lily and Sam playing Santa Claus, he lay awake in his bed. The one photo in his room was smiling down at him, of himself… and Cas. He’d found it in the trench coat, and smoothed the creases so much they’d become flat ghosts of themselves. He couldn’t make out Cas’s face properly because it was over the fold. It was painful in too many ways to consider that it was probably a choice Cas had made deliberately, to keep Dean’s own expression preserved. He didn’t have a token, no reminder to carry in his pocket as Cas had so clearly done with this. Not that it had really occurred to him that he would need one until Cas was actually gone. 

He’d spent so much time being angry at Jimmy for still being around that he’d forgotten that Cas had basically stolen the guys body and destroyed his life. He exposed his family to the threat of Hell, and it probably never even occurred to Cas to thank him for it properly. The same way it hadn’t occurred to Dean that he should have tried to talk to Jimmy about it, find out how much he knew about what had happened, instead of punching him in the face. It was possible that Jimmy didn’t fully understand what Cas had done for them, but it was also possible that he’d spoken to Cas inside his own head. Maybe he knew something. Maybe there was a piece of Cas that Dean could still discover.

It was selfish of him to want that, and it would have been even more so to act on it, and he knew it, but he didn’t care. He reasoned that it was kind of selfish for Jimmy to ask him to go to his boyfriend’s funeral, right? Right. Although maybe Sam did have a point about Jimmy not being Cas’ corpse. Could he really do it, go to Rome, and look at the face that used to belong to a friend, and see someone else behind it?


	2. It's Not His Corpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean struggles to keep his ideas of Jimmy and Cas separate when he arrives in Rome.

“Cas?” Dean reached out to grab the back of his coat. The room was small and dark, water ran down the walls from the leaky pipes that hung from the ceiling. Castiel’s coat was dirty. When Dean’s fingers finally reached it, the fabric was slick and wet. Castiel didn’t turn. “Cas! It’s me.” Dean shouted. His voice echoed as though they were in a vast carven, but the walls were getting closer and closer. Dean could hardly breathe.

He squinted at the Cas's outline, his eyes straining to make out any sign of movement, of acknowledgement that somebody else was there. The only light seemed to be coming from Cas himself, radiating slowly from his hands and the small sliver of skin exposed between his collar and his hairline. “It’s Dean.” 

Castiel finally began to turned and Dean felt the beginnings of relief in his chest. He knew that as soon as he turned, as soon as he saw those eyes, everything would be okay. But there were no eyes to see. Instead there were two gaping holes pouring blood down his cheeks in thick, black gluts that dropped from his chin to the ground. His mouth hung slack, the same thick sludge pouring from between his lips. His shirt was torn and hanging open, the complex symbol he'd used to save them all bleeding black onto his grey skin. Dean opened his mouth to call him but there was no sound, just water pouring from inside him. 

The water splashed and lapped at Dean's feet, and it wasn't water at all. It was red. So was the liquid that seeped down the walls, and the blood pouring from Castiel's mouth and the place where his eyed had been. It covered Dean head to toe, and he was screaming, screaming-

“Sir?” 

Dean felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and jolted awake. The plane was flooded with young daylight. An air hostess was leaning across the empty seat next to him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to disembark so that we can clean the plane,” she told him with a coral-lipstick smile. 

“We there already?” Dean asked, groggy from the sleeping pills he’d taken to smooth out the flight. 

“Yes sir – do you require any assistance?” she offered, reaching up and getting his bag for him from the overhead compartment before he had to opportunity to tell her it wasn’t necessary. 

“No, thank you,” he mumbled, taking his bag. She smiled sickly sweet.

Round black speakers buzzed in constant Italian that surrounded him as he waited at the conveyor for his suitcase to come around. To him it was unintelligible babble, and it soothed him. He’d been lethargic for all of five minutes after leaving the plane, then his body seemed to remember where he was and what he was doing, and just like that he was so anxious his joints felt stiff. 

His bag was a battered, grey holdall, and it looked sorry and pathetic when he finally spotted it, wedged in between two sleek black cases. He heaved it over his shoulder, and made his way out of baggage collection so he could get out of the airport. It was a crowded mess of moving bodies, and Dean kept his head down as he made his way over to the taxi rank. He pulled out his wallet and started to thumb through the euros that Sam had stuffed into it. He had no idea how much to expect the damn taxi to cost – he didn’t even know what the exchange rate was. 

“Dean?” said that familiar voice. Dean felt as though all of his organs had dropped to the region of his ankles. He didn’t want to look up from the safety of the tiled floor. He wasn’t sure what he would do. A hand was on his shoulder. Dean could see his feet in converse, legs too slender and wrapped in stylishly weathered and slim fitting jeans that seemed all wrong. His light blue t-shirt was thin and loose, and he had sunglasses through a belt loop at his hip. There was an expensive watch on his wrist that protruded from the sleeve of a pale grey linen suit jacket. Dean exhaled. This wasn’t Cas at all. Not that it seemed very much Jimmy as Dean had understood him before now, either. 

The face was a different story. Although the dark hair had faded to charcoal, and the lips were no longer chapped in that familiar way, the cheekbones were the same, as was the slant of his jaw. The rugged slightly-more-than-stubble was so like the beard Cas had grown in purgatory, one he remembered against the skin of his neck. The flesh there tickled as though it remembered and Dean unconsciously raised his hand to cover it, like Jimmy would be able to see the sensation. His eyes, that perfect blue, blue like the sky just after dusk.

“Hi,” Dean answered, a little breathlessly. Jimmy smiled, creases deepening around his eyes. He had aged well, and the lines on his face seemed at first to suggest a happy, easy life. There were others though, less defined than the laughter lines – marks in his brow like shallow scars. Dean wondered if they were less visible because they were made when the face belonged to Cas. “I thought I was getting a cab.” Dean admitted, pocketing his wallet. 

“Yeah… I thought I’d come get you myself,” Jimmy explained with a shrug. 

Jimmy’s car was expensive, a hard-topped convertible Mercedes. The inside smelt new but there were corners of paper sticking out of the glove compartment, and there had been crumbs in the boot. Jimmy was quiet, but kept glancing over at Dean as he drove. It made Dean anxious to be in his passenger seat. He tried his best to focus on the buildings zipping past them. Soon, they had to slow down, and the car rocked and juddered over old cobbled stone roads. Everywhere looked like a postcard or a painting, the buildings too cutesy and rustic to be real. 

Finally, they pulled into a small yard. When Jimmy got out, he slide a wooden gate over the entrance. It was the epitome of all the places they'd driven past to get here; everything was coated in terracotta render that was patterned by cracks that little plants had used to build homes in the wall. The house was tall and narrow, and the long windows mimicked its shape. The ground floor had two glass doors that opened into the yard, and the other three had little balconies in a line directly above them. 

“Nice place you got.” Dean commented. Jimmy took off his shades and smiled sadly.

“Marcus inherited a lot of money from his parents when they died.” He explained. Dean nodded, then dipped his head. It was too much to look at those eyes. “It’s all mine now,” he added. Dean tried to swallow the lump Jimmy's expression put in his throat. “Please, come in.” 

Their shoes echoed against the polished sandstone floor so loudly in the massive space that it made Dean want to take his off, and he normally hated those kind of bullshit 'house rules' or whatever people called them. The place was like the tardis; it was narrow but it extended back for a good couple of hundred feet. It didn't seem like the kind of place people lived in - it looked like should have been a museum or something. At the other side of the open-plan living space Dean could see another courtyard through a set of glass doors, and in it a pool that glittered in the sunlight. Marcus had clearly inherited a hell of a lot of money. 

“Wine?” Jimmy offered, walking loudly across the room to the corner that served as the kitchen. The sliding doors to the second courtyard would open right into it. Now the winter chill was gone, Dean could imagine that the bright sunlight that the room was bathed in was warm and relaxing. 

“What is it, like, two in the afternoon?” Dean scoffed, but Jimmy had already filled one glass and was poised to fill the one next to it. 

“When in Rome.” Jimmy said, and sloshed dark red liquid into the glass with a dark smile. Dean lifted it and swirled the liquid around before tasting it. As he’d suspected, it tasted like it cost too much money. “Sorry… I. I’m sure you’re tired from your flight. I’ll show you your room if you like.” Jimmy offered, and placed an empty glass on the table. When Dean raised an eyebrow he smiled apologetically. 

“That would be great.” Dean mumbled, but he wanted to shake him. 

Jimmy led him up a small curved staircase to the first floor. It was carpeted, so he didn’t feel as loud and intrusive up there as he had downstairs. Jimmy opened the first door they came across. Dean gaped at what was inside; a minimalist impression of a four poster bed stood on a small platform about six inches high in the centre of the room. His room was at the front of the house, so it didn’t have a balcony, but it did have six windows that were almost floor to ceiling, giving him a panoramic view of the garden, and some rooftops, but mostly the clear sky. There were a few chairs, a little table, and a chaise lounge. 

“Your en suite doesn’t have a bath but there’s one in the main bathroom for this floor, which is the second door along, if you want to use it.” Jimmy explained. He seemed nervous. He went and stood in the window. Dean dumped his bag by the door. 

“A shower’s awesome, thanks.” Dean replied. 

“Right… there’s towels and soap and… if you need anything I’ll be downstairs.” Jimmy muttered. He marched out of the room. He paused to give Dean a weak smile before he closed the door behind himself. Dean exhaled. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. He could hear soft, regular ticking, and traced it to a small ornate clock that was sat on the mantelpiece of an electric fire that was crackling artificially in the corner. It was almost three. He yawned. He had half the mind to flop right on those expensive silk sheets and sleep right away, but he knew he’d regret it later if he didn't shower. He needed to wash the plane out of his skin.

The bathroom was like the rest of the house; expensive looking and excessively large. The shower was hot and so powerful it felt as though each thin jet of water was leaving pleasant dents in Dean’s skin. He winds up sat on the floor, half asleep, with his arms hung loosely around his shins and his forehead pressed against his knees. He listened to the water pounding off him and against the glass panels he’s showering between, like heavy rain, and to the uneven rasp of his breath, amplified by the chamber he’d made from his thighs and chest. He can feel his heart pumping right down to his toes. It felt almost like meditation. 

He slept naked and on top of the duvet, but woke up shivering.

It was just dark outside, the sky clinging to some residue of blue still before it becomes an inky black. Dean realised with a blush that there’s a jug of water and a glass of ice on the bedside table that hadn’t been there when he fell asleep. He hoped that he’d just overlooked it when he’d stumbled in half-awake from the shower. He glanced at the clock and groans. There was no way that ice remained un-melted for four hours. 

He got dressed and decided that he’d walk out into the city to find a place to eat. They had driven past what looked like restaurants and bars on the way, and he was sure he’d be able to navigate himself through enough Italian to get a plate of something infront of him, even if he didn’t know what the hell it was. As soon as he stepped into the hall, it was clear that was not going to be necessary. The house was filled with the rich smell of cooking tomatoes and garlic, and Dean could hear the sizzle of something being fried. 

“Smells good," he said as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Jimmy looked up from his pan, stunned. He was wearing a well-used apron. The shirt was different to the one he had been wearing before and appeared to be at least a size too big for him. Upon seeing Dean, Jimmy furiously rubbed his eyes and turned away, fiddling with the line of multicoloured oils in their rack on the wall.

“Thank you. It will be homemade pesto with chicken and pasta, and there’s a ciabatta in the oven as well.” Jimmy explained, his voice obviously straining to be upbeat. When he turned back, Dean could see his eyes were red and puffy. He frowned. Jimmy smiled. “Sorry, I…” he began, then shrugged. He grabbed the frying pan and shook it, the strips of chicken inside rolling around. “I haven’t cooked since Marcus…” Jimmy explained.

Dean looked away. Conveniently, the pool was dramatically lit in the darkness, and the garden around it was dotted with small orbs of white light. “You didn’t need to cook for me, Jimmy. I’d have gone out and found something to eat. I’m a good hunter.” Dean glanced back over at him with a grin. Jimmy was frowning. Cas, Dean thought. He looked back outside as quickly as he could.

“I wanted to show you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for us,” Jimmy told him quietly. Dean mulled over his use of 'us' rather than 'me'. Of course he was talking about himself and Marcus, not Cas. No. Of course he wasn't talking about Cas. He needed to calm the hell down. He forced himself to breathe slowly and unfurl his hands to lie them flat against the tops of his thighs, rather than leave than balled into fists. It wasn't helpful - or, he thought, necessary. 

He didn’t allow himself turn back to Jimmy until he announced that the food was all done. “You want to eat together, or?” Jimmy asked, hovering awkwardly over the dining table as Dean hastily shoved a fork right into his food. Dean nodded. Jimmy chose a seat one over from opposite him. Dean is unsure if the churning feeling that inspires is because he feels awkward about that or grateful. As they ate, Dean noticed a slender flick of white that was marked into the skin of Jimmy's chest, just visible above his shirt. It must be the top of the scar from Cas's symbol. Dean shuddered. 

He didn't want to see that, to be forced into remembering Cas' shaking hands, slick with blood and still clinging to the kitchen knife he'd used to draw the marks into himself. That moment where they looked at each other, and although Cas hadn't said it out loud, Dean knew it was the last time, the very last moment they would look into each other. Remembering knowing that when Cas turned away, he'd never know for sure. Him crumpling like he was made of paper, the fading out screech of Dean's name. The knife on the grass. The pain in Dean's own chest. Running to Cas' side but knowing already that the connection to the man in his arms was cut in ways that were too much for him to take. 

When Sam rushed forward, jamming his hand against Castiel's bloody neck. "He's alive! Dean! He's alive, there's a pulse!" he'd yelled. Gently folding him across Sam's lap in the back of the Impala that he'd only drive once more, home from the hospital that night, unable to bear washing the blood from the seats. Cas in that bed, but Dean knew, deep down, that it was never Cas there at all. Remembering the tubes and the wires and hating them. Months and months waiting, waiting for him to wake up, prove the certainty in Dean's heart wrong. But it wasn't wrong. He'd known from that moment before he turned away that it was over. Cas was gone. 

Jimmy cleared his throat, dragging Dean back to the present. His hands were fists again. He couldn't relax them. It was like his fingers had fused to his palms. “How’s your room?” he asked. Dean’s gaze flicked up from the scar to rest momentarily on Jimmy’s eyes, but it turned out it hurt too much to do that, so instead he looked at his clenched hands.

“Huge, expensive-looking. I slept like a log all afternoon.” Dean told him, trying to keep his voice even. Jimmy chuckled weakly.

“I’m glad to hear it," Jimmy told him. They listened to each other breathe. "Marcus’s father made grand pianos – they were not the most famous company, but they had quite remarkable quiet success," Jimmy explained, his voice back in that forced-pleasant tone. It made Dean feel a little ill. "He never had a place after they got killed until he met me.” Jimmy explained. Dean tried to envision Cas – no, Jimmy. He tried to envision Jimmy meeting some hunter in a bar and being all stupid trench coat and awkwardly close proximity. He almost smiled at the thought.

“How’d you guys meet?” Dean asked. Jimmy didn’t respond for a while, so Dean chanced another glimpse at not-Cas’s face. He looked sad and thoughtful. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking…” Dean mumbled. He had, just not about the right things.

“No, no,” Jimmy insisted. He pushed his chair back from the table a little and leaned against it. “I’d been wandering round for months. At first I told myself I was trying to get away from all the craziness, but I don’t know. In the end I had questions that I didn’t realise just how much I needed the answers to. I started following leads that I hoped would help me find them. I left the states - too many things he'd..." Jimmy trailed off, his hand absently moving to clutch the side of his head. "I wound up meeting Marcus in India. He was wondering what had happened to the demon he’d been hunting. Hot trail and then, poof. Gone. It was as if someone banished all the supernaturals or something like that, he said. It was nice to be the one with the answers, for once. Turned out he... he had an answer or two for me as well,” Jimmy’s voice was shaking as he spoke. 

“You coulda stayed with us.” Dean mumbled. 

“No.” Jimmy said too quickly. Dean was taken aback and forgot that he couldn't look at Jimmy's face for a second too long and that was it. His eyes were wide, blue, and they were so completely Cas that Dean could do nothing. He was a rabbit in the headlights, completely immobilized until Jimmy closed his eyes. As soon as he did Dean's cheeks fflared up bright red and he looked away again. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. He shook himself; he had to keep a hold of himself better than that if he was going to make it through the funeral.

“It isn’t your fault," Jimmy breathed, eyes still closed. "It wasn't fair, I know. It wasn't your fault that you were angry. Please try to remember that it’s not mine either,” Jimmy growled. He sounded like Cas when he spoke like that, all ragged words and breath caught in his throat. Dean tried not to think about that. A tear spilt down one of Jimmy’s cheeks. “I was angry, too." Dean's nostrils flared.

"Oh, you were angry?" Dean growled, nodding. Jimmy's eyes were wide and calculative. So, that was how it was. "He’d left me with nothing, Dean. Nothing at all,” Jimmy's voice was strained. His eyes were glassy. There were streaks of moisture down his cheeks - no, Dean would not admit that they were tears. 

“Nothing?" Dean spat incredulously. "He gave you your life back! His life! He gave it up for you!" Dean's voice was too loud in the echo-y room. Jimmy's shoulders were hunches forwards. He was cowering. 

"No. He dragged me back to life. I was in heaven! Paradise!" Jimmy was pleading. "And all of a sudden I was dragged back here and shoved inside this body and you were so angry at me for not being him, and I could feel all the things he'd felt right at that last moment." He was clutching his head with both hands, breathing massive, panic breaths. Dean's resolve was shaking. His shoulders slumped. He could only see Cas curled in front of him, hurting from things he, Dean, had said. He couldn't look. He couldn't speak. He sat back down heavily and took a vicious gulp of his wine.

Jimmy got to his feet silently and reached across the table to take Dean’s empty plate. He carried the dishes to the kitchen and put them in the sink. He stayed in front of it with his back to Dean. Dean watched his shoulders shake. The tap was running so water splashed loudly into the sink, but every now and then Dean heard a gasp of breath, and knew Jimmy was sobbing. He, Dean Winchester, was a dick. Who the fuck was he? He could hear Sam's voice in the back of his mind; "guy just lost his husband and you march in here, yelling at him about things that happened years ago that he didn't even have any control over? Who the hell do you think you are?" Funny how his conscience had Sammy's voice. Also profoundly annoying. Well, he supposed, Sammy went on at him long and hard enough that it shouldn't be all that much of a surprise. 

Jimmy was still just standing there, shaking a little. Dean wracked his mind for inspiration. He had no cards to play at all. Dammit. “C’mon, dude…” Dean tried uselessly. Jimmy gasped and straightened, becoming a flurry of movement, cleaning their plates. Dean didn’t know what to do. He looked around the room. There were photos of Cas – Jimmy, dammit – with an attractive Italian man, who assumed must be Marcus. They looked… happy. Dean felt a pang of jealousy that seemed to make his ears burn. In one of the photographs C- Jimmy looks deliriously happy, his hands entwined with Marcus’, clearly being waltzed around under coloured lights. In another, Jimmy isn’t looking at the camera. He’s looking at Marcus as though he’s the world. The jet black jaw-length curls he’d had in the other pictures are gone, and replaced by a grey woollen hat. There’s a thin plastic tube in suspended across his face that disappears into his nose.

Jesus, they’ve been everywhere, Dean realised. Pyramids, the Eiffel tower, Eyre’s rock, the great fjords. Nowhere state-side though. Dean glanced back over at Jimmy. He’s not washing anymore, though the tap is still running. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Dean got to his feet. Jimmy was hunched over the sink, up to his elbows in the warm water. Dean turned off the tap, and gently placed a hand on Jimmy’s back. His face his scrunched up. He rocks back and forth without a sound, tears dripping from his chin into the washing up bowl. 

He let Dean turn him around and loop his arms around him. Jimmy didn’t hug him back. He may as well have been Castiel, the way he stood unmoving, with his arms hanging limply at his sides. Dean’s eyes stung at the thought. Jimmy’s face burrowed into Dean’s shoulder. He shook with a shuddering gasp. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry." He kept saying it over and over until his words dissolved into choked sobs. 

“Hey, no," Dean mumbled. "It’s… fine man. Hey. It’s alright,” Dean began in a useless attempt to comfort him. One of Jimmy’s dripping wet arms hugged him back briefly then pulling away again in an obvious plea for release. Dean lets his arms fall. Jimmy was so close to him, with that face, those eyes. But Jimmy was not Cas. This man with tears streaming down his face was not Cas and Dean was so angry, so filled with hatred for that. He'd never questioned those feelings before; Jimmy had asked for Cas to use him as his vessel and Cas had told him that himself. He said Jimmy had prayed for Cas to use him like that, so it was Jimmy's fault that... that he was Jimmy. Right? Cas wasn't using him in the sense of exploitation, because it had been voluntary. He'd asked, damn it. 

Sam's voice crept up on him again. Dean groaned internally at it as it cheerfully asked him whether he thought that Jimmy had really understood what being Cas' vessel was really going to be like until it had happened. After it had, he wasn't as enthusiastic as Cas had implied he had been before. In Dean's first brief meeting with him, he had seemed disillusioned by it, maybe even angry. Hadn't he said he didn't want Cas to use him as his vessel ever again, or something along those lines? Maybe Dean hadn't thought about what Cas had been like back then, how he'd have thought ripping apart a family was nothing compared to the importance of his mission. It had taken years for Cas to become who he had in the end, to have the capacity to understand some of the finer points of human emotions. Jimmy had been dragged along by someone who hadn't been able to explain what that would really mean, and that wasn't Cas' fault, not really. Cas didn't understand he was hurting Jimmy. But... but maybe he had.

No, Dean definitely did not want this in his head. No. Cas was good, he was crooked smiles and messed up hair and not understanding you can't stand that close to people even if it's what they really want, even if they'd have you stand closer. He didn't hurt Jimmy, Dean would not allow himself to think that. But Jimmy's wife was dead because of Cas, and his kid had grown up in care, probably traumatised by what she'd seen happen to her mother and her father. Hell, Jimmy probably had weird half-memories of thousands of lost souls slowly tearing him apart from the inside, and even if Cas' intentions on that occasion had really been good it had taken even Dean a long time to really forgive him for it. 

Dean didn’t want to think about any of it. Not Jimmy, not suffering, not Cas. He wanted it to be easy to hate Jimmy for this, or even better, to not have to deal with it at all. And yet, after fifteen years, it didn't look likely that Cas was going to stop plaguing him any time soon, nor did it seem likely that he'd be able to prevent himself from thinking about suffering in the near future either, so he supposed that Jimmy would end up stuck in his head too.

He stepped back.

“I’ll explain the arrangements for the… the funeral…” Jimmy seemed to have great difficulty forming complete words. Dean justnodded. Jimmy’s eyes tightened with what, shame? Apology? Dean couldn’t tell. “In the morning,” he concluded. He finished it all off with a nod. 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, unsure of what else to say. Jimmy made no movement towards the stairs, but he wasn’t looking at Dean anymore. He was looking at the photos on the wall. “Night, Jimmy.” Dean said, but Jimmy didn’t seem to hear him. 

Dean had barely folded himself into the silken sheets and pressed his eyes shut when he heard the first smash. He thought maybe someone had broken into the house but then he heard Jimmy. They were sounds that people rarely make, reserved for dark times when your best friend is gone, and nobody around you seems to understand. For moments when you notice that the world has kept turning on despite the fact he's gone, and he's never coming back.

Dean pulled the pillows over his head and pressed his eyes shut tight.


	3. Bedside Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Marcus' funeral, Jimmy is a little worse for wear.

“…there you go, Tom,” one of Jimmy’s friends crooned in an accented voice as he sat him on the couch. His name was Tony, and he turned to Dean with a grimace. “You sure you’re alright with use getting home?” he asked with genuine concern. His anxious partner hovered around the door. It was dark outside.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine, you get home to your…dogs.” Dean assured him. Tony smiled gratefully, and left, closing the door behind him. Jimmy threw up in the floor. The sound reminded Dean of a water balloon. “Nice.” Dean groaned. He fetched a tea towel and covered the puke with it, more so it was out of sight than anything else. Jimmy’s eyes were half open, and even though he was horizontal he still managed to be swaying slightly in a manner that betrayed just how drunk he was. 

“You have plagued my dreams.” Jimmy slurred, clumsily grabbing a fistful of the jacket of the monkey suit Dean had stuffed himself into for the occasion. Under his other arm, Jimmy clutched Marcus’ urn. Dean didn’t blame him for being so wasted. It was hard enough for Dean sit there and listen to the priest referring to the dead man in the casket at the front of the church as Michel not Marcus. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Jimmy. “He filled my head with you.” Jimmy growled.

“What?” Dean demanded, putting a hand on Jimmy’s forearm. He wobbled, and lost his grip on Dean’s clothes. He slumped back against the couch again. 

“Him.” Jimmy’s eyes rolled and he shook his head. “Don’t make me say his name.”

“Cas…” Dean whispered, and Jimmy winced. 

“Don’t say it! We mustn’t say it… Marcus said. Marcus. Baby.” Jimmy moaned, rocking side to side just a little. Both his arms wrapped around the urn now. His eyes closed. “He’s gone, he’s gone. My angel, he’s gone.” Jimmy sobbed. Dean wasn’t sure whether he was talking about Cas or Marcus. “And you. In my dreams. I can’t… you’re burned inside my head.” Jimmy spat. Dean recoiled. “It was all for you, Dean Winchester. My life was over for you! He dragged me back from heaven, for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean whispered. His heart was in his throat. Jimmy looked at him with Cas’s eyes and the whole world was in flames around him. When his lips parted, the corners stayed stuck together for a few seconds in a way that made Dean’s muscles turn to liquid. He sank to the floor, sitting dangerously close to Jimmy’s puke. It was probably just booze any way; Dean hadn’t seen actually consume anything else all day. Jimmy didn’t say anything else. Dean thought he might have fallen asleep, when without warning he threw up again. This time he didn’t manage to avoid getting it all over himself. 

“Oh god. Marcus, oh no. I’m so sorry.” He sobbed, holding the urn high above his head. Dean plucked it from him. Jimmy’s fingers fumbled in the air for a few seconds before his arms flopped to his sides in defeat. 

“Hey, look. It’s alright. I’ll just get a cloth. It’s fine.” Dean assured Jimmy, who was making a sound like he’d been stabbed. He didn’t react to Dean’s words. He sighed exasperatedly and got to his feet. He gently wiped the engraved metal clean, and carried the urn back to Jimmy. “Look, see? It’s all fine now.” Dean showed him. Jimmy quieted, and blinked at the urn. Tears were still dreaming down his face. It stank of whiskey and wine. Jimmy was soaked in dark liquid. “Shall I put him here for now?” Dean asked. He was using the same voice he did when he was putting Sammy’s kids to bed, the voice he crooned to them all in when they were babies. 

He put Marcus’ ashes on the mantel, underneath the photographs of him and Jimmy. Some of the frames were cracked and others were missing glass. In the corner of the room there was a swept pile of shards of glass and crockery. Dean assumed it was the wreckage from Jimmy’s outburst the night before.   
Jimmy was still sobbing pathetically on the couch covered in his own puke, and Dean realised that it was likely if he was left to his own devices, he’d just sleep right there like that. Would you leave Cas lying there like that? Dean’s mind probed itself. He frowned. He couldn’t see it as anything else after that. He recalled the time that Cas had gone on a ‘bender’ and his grogginess the next day. Dean couldn’t stand by and watch him like that then, and he couldn’t do it now either, even though it wasn’t really him. Jimmy looked like Cas, and he sort of sounded like him too. Dean took off his jacket and slung it onto the dining table.

“Come on,” he urged Jimmy softly. He helped Cas… no. He helped Jimmy sit up, and slid his jacket off his shoulders. He squinted at it, then decided it was way beyond help so he simply dropped it onto the ground. “Dude, you’re gonna have one hell of a hangover.” Dean told him. Jimmy half smiled. 

“I’m so tired.” Jimmy confessed, his eyes sliding shut. He went like a deadweight. Dean caught him, grimacing as the wetness on Jimmy’s shirt soaked through onto his as he wrapped his arms around him and heaved him to his feet. He half carried him up the stairs. 

“Which is your room?” Dean asked him. “Actually, scratch that. You can just sleep in the other one on the first floor; I’m not dragging you up more than one flight of stairs.” Dean grumbled. Jimmy didn’t respond. He might’ve been dead but for the rasping sound of his breath and the steady drum of his heart that Dean could feel against his side. He opened the door to the other bedroom and stumbled inside, almost tripping over Jimmy’s feet. Dean looked around, and as he did so his eyes narrowed into a confused squint.

The room was very much like his own in shape and layout, with the same long windows and a bed on a raised platform in the middle. But the bed was the only furniture besides a single wooden chair in front of the windows, which stood before an easel. There were canvases all around the room, but he couldn’t see the front of a single one of them. In some places they were stacked three, four deep against the walls. The floor was covered in a sheet that was splattered in paint. The walls and ceiling were painted with what appeared to be some kind of mural, but it didn’t make sense. It was all swirls of colour, twists of what appeared to be flames winding around thin branches that ended in spindly fingers, reaching for a swathe of red cloth, which was really dripping blood. There seemed to be eyes, all colours, and glimpses of faces that Dean didn’t recognise. 

Jimmy was maintaining his apparent unconsciousness on Dean’s shoulder, so couldn’t be asked what the hell was going on in there. Dean wondered idly if it had been Jimmy or Marcus who’d painted the room. Jimmy hadn’t seemed the artist type, but maybe that’s what being dragged around by an angel did to you. How was it that Jimmy had described it? 

Like being chained to a comet? Dean shook himself. He didn’t want to think about Cas chaining anyone to anything.   
Instead, he hoisted Jimmy a little further over his back, and dragged him to the door that he hoped led to an en suite. Thankfully, it did. The sink was dirty with paint residue, colourful lines bleeding down its bowl above dried drips on the tiles. There were brushes in pots, palettes caked and discarded. The shower floor was paint-grimy as well. The whole place smelt powdery with it. He turned on the shower, and turned to push Jimmy up against the sink so as to balance him.

“Jimmy, hey. Buddy.” Dean said, lightly tapping his cheek with the palm of his hand. Jimmy’s eyelids fluttered. “There you go.”

“I’m so tired Dean.” Jimmy slurred. Dean gave him a sympathetic pat. 

“I know. But you’re all… pukey.” Dean explained. 

“Eugh.” Jimmy groaned, looking down at his streaked shirt and grimacing. He started fumbling with his buttons. Dean batted his hands away, unbuttoning just the top two and hoisting the shirt and the vest underneath over his head. His chest was slick with moisture. The banishing sign carved into his flesh seemed to glow white, undulating over the soft contours of his muscles. Dean remembered Cas drawing this into himself twice, all tears and blood and shaking fingers, and losing him both times it had happened. He wondered if Jimmy remembered too. 

“Yeah, well. How about a shower? That sound good?” Dean suggested. Jimmy nodded and unbuttoned his trousers. Dean expected him to just take off them and leave his boxers, and had he been any more sober than he was, he probably would have done that. As it was, he stumbled forwards, kicking off his shoes and reaching ridiculously to pull his socks off his feet. He fell down onto the tiles, and it was enough to set him off sobbing again. “Hey, man. No. Just- c’mon.” Dean whined, but stepped forward to help him up. 

He held him in the shower, barely noticing his shirt getting soaked. Jimmy kept his chin on Dean’s shoulder, his arms hanging uselessly at the sides. Every now and then he’d sway a little and his jaw would slip sharply off Dean’s shoulder and onto his collarbone and make him wince. Dean pushed him up against the wall so the water would run down his chest. Jimmy looked at him dolefully, the blue of his eyes seemed brighter against his blood shot whites. Dean looked determinedly away. 

It seemed unfair that Dean be left to deal with Jimmy when he was like this – he hadn’t spoken to him for the best part of fifteen years. He barely knew the guy at all. When he had spoken to him, the conversations had been short, and had almost exclusively been about Cas. He knew Cas. If it had been Cas collapsed in the corner then maybe – maybe – Dean would be the most appropriate person to help him take a shower. But Jimmy was virtually a stranger to him.

Dean thought about the funeral, about how all of Jimmy’s friends had called him Tom, about how everyone else who’d been at the crematorium were mourning some ordinary guy called Michel, not the ex-hunter called Marcus who Jimmy had travelled to all those places in the photos with. Sure, they’d probably know ‘Tom’ for years, but if you’d asked them about Jimmy, they wouldn’t have known who you were talking about. Jimmy had asked Dean there because he wanted there to be someone else who understood, at least to a degree, who Marcus really had been. Maybe Jimmy had really wanted someone who understood who he really was. 

Dean shut off the water and reached out of the shower to grab Jimmy a towel. “Alright. We’re done.” He told him. Jimmy nodded lethargically in reply. He let himself be wrapped in a towel and guided out of the bathroom.

Once they were in the bedroom, Jimmy pulled away from Dean for the first time since he’d slumped against the sink, and wandered over to sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Dean could see the vague impression of his spine under his skin, and frowned. Across his shoulder blades were two oddly shaped white patches, each one marked through with lines of red. He hadn’t seen them in the shower because he’d had Jimmy against the wall, but now they seemed glaringly obvious. He squinted at them. With a shudder he realised they must be scars, and the red lines fresh scratches through them. 

Dean hesitantly wrapped his arms around himself and reached for his shoulder blades. He dropped his arms once he’d concluded that yes, it was possible that Jimmy had done that to himself with his own fingernails. He stepped back and knocked into one of the stacks of canvas, then jumped forwards so they all fell flat on the sheet-covered carpet. Jimmy yelped and jumped off the bed, leaving his towel behind. 

Dean crouched to prop them back against the wall, but froze. The one on the top of the pile appeared was the night sky, a complex nebula delicately painted across a pink and blue burst of colour that represented distant stars twisting into the darkness. The shapes warped and organised themselves into cheekbones, the join of jawline onto neck and shoulders that sloped into arms and chest. It was him, Dean, painted into the constellations, or by the constellations. It was invisible at first but then it was all he could see.

“No, no…” Jimmy mumbled, his hands trying desperately to cover the painting. Dean pushed him back easily. He landed awkwardly on his bare ass, and Dean tried not to look at his complete nakedness. He was only distracted by it for a second before he saw the next painting. It made his heart feel like it had turned into stone. He couldn’t remember hell, not really, but the swirls of flaming chains and half-defined black-smoke figures with empty eyes and knife-sharp fingers were evocative enough to make sweat break on his forehead. In the centre, the axis around which the figures swarmed, was fixed point of bright light. Jimmy fingers touched it. Dean shivered. “The righteous man…” Jimmy whispered. 

“You… saw this?” Dean forced himself to say. His throat hurt like he’d screamed it into shreds. His words sounded like they had been carved out of slate. He can’t have seen it – he hadn’t even been Cas’ vessel then. There was no way, unless… “You- you have his memories?” Dean pressed. Jimmy shook his head. 

“No. Just… dreams sometimes. Back then. Things would happen and then I, he. We would remember.” Jimmy’s fingers traced across the tongues of fire. “They got stuck in my head.” Jimmy’s hand left the painting to rest over the banishing sign.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Dean agreed, wishing that he didn’t. So Cas had dreams of hell, too. He thought of all the times that Cas had come to him, rested his hand against Dean’s forehead so that he could sleep in peace. All that time, Cas hadn’t said once that he’d shared Dean’s nightmares. Dean’s stomach twisted with guilt when he realised that he’d never asked him.

“He marked you too.” Jimmy whispered. His fingers brushed Dean’s shoulder, where the mark of Cas’ hand was still burnt faintly into his skin. He shivered again. He saw more white flashes of scars on Jimmy’s forearms, two long lines like rope pressed into his skin. They should have stopped him from leaving the bunker. It had to be too much. “I felt him… I felt him ebbing away.” Jimmy whispered. “I felt him there, and I felt… I felt…” He looked right at Dean with Cas’ eyes. 

“What, Jimmy?” Dean asked him desperately. Jimmy closed his eyes, fat tears pressing through his eyelashes and ghosting down his cheeks. Jimmy shook his head.

“Marcus – he said. He said that in order to move on, you have to let go.” Jimmy was still slurring his words. He breathed heavily through an open mouth. He looked exhausted. 

“Letting go means... it means not talking about it. About him.” Jimmy explained. His head lolled to the side, a movement evocative of Cas’ curious head tilt. 

“Man, I wish I’d had him around instead of Sammy.” Dean said with a smile. Jimmy looked at him tiredly. Dean shrugged and rubbed Jimmy’s arm gently. “All he ever wants to do is talk about it.” Jimmy leaned forwards across the painting of Dean in hell, to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I… I don’t know.” Dean muttered. He shoved the paintings aside so Jimmy could fall forwards a little more. Dean hesitated, then laid his arms across Jimmy’s back. 

It was quiet. The room was lit only through the bathroom door and the door onto the landing. Faint shadows were cast by the pair of them in both directions. Dean’s eyes trailed across the walls, his neck craning upwards to look at the ceiling. There was a figure painted in black, arms outstretched. Behind him two wings made of fire licked and burned all around him. Jimmy was asleep against Dean’s chest.

“Cas…” Dean whispered. “I know it’s been a long time. I don’t know if you can hear me but… I don’t know if you’re there. Angels can’t really die, right?” Dean cleared his throat. He squeezed his arms a little tighter around Jimmy. “Anyway. I don’t know if you can hear me, but. I miss you. Probably doesn’t mean much but, there you go.”   
He waited, but of course nothing happened. Nothing ever did. 

Jimmy stirred and squinted up at Dean’s face. “I think that he hears you.” He muttered. Dean felt his cheeks flush with heat; he didn’t think Jimmy would have heard him. “In the last few days, when Marcus just slept, they told me not to stop talking to him.” Jimmy whispered. “I think it’s like that.” Jimmy sighed, and closed his eyes again. Dean hadn’t been fully aware that he’d been staring into them until he couldn’t anymore. 

“Cas?” Dean said again. He watched Jimmy’s face cautiously, but this time he really seemed like he was asleep. “I’m here, Cas.” Dean whispered. He cupped the side of Jimmy’s face with his palm. “I’m right here.”


	4. Whatever's Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little heads up that this chapter contains very graphically described scenes of distress, suffering, and well, puke. 'Reader discretion advised', or something along those lines!

Dean leaned against the counter in Jimmy’s kitchen, sipping from the mug of fresh coffee he’d just made. The whole house smelled of it, rich and delicious. Jimmy had still been unconscious on the floor when Dean had looked in on him almost an hour earlier, still covered in the duvet off the bed in Dean’s room because there wasn’t one on the bed in the room filled with paintings. Waking up was going to be a nasty shock for him. It had only taken Dean a few minutes to find all he needed to use the coffee machine because it transpired that most of Jimmy’s cupboards were empty apart from ketchup and a bottle of pills.

It was five hours until his flight home, and his palms were already slicking up with anxiety. He couldn’t stomach even the thought of food, let alone actually eating something, so he had decided to just stick with the coffee. It was absurdly delicious; the expensive single bean type stuff that he’d had to grind up himself with a little motor before sticking it into the machine. 

“Dean?” Jimmy’s voice was groggy and quiet, but it seemed to fill the room, bridging the space between them in an instant. Dean felt as though he was simultaneously intruding on Jimmy and being intruded on by him, and the whole situation was entirely uncomfortable. Hangovers made Jimmy look more like Cas than ever, which didn’t help with anything. 

 

“You made coffee.” Jimmy noticed. 

“Yeah, sorry about rooting around your kitchen. I needed a pick me up.” Dean explained. Jimmy smiled, but there was something off about the expression that made Dean’s skin crawl. It seemed somehow hollow, made Dean feel as though he was looking right into Jimmy and there was nothing inside him at all. It was all too much. At least Jimmy wasn’t naked anymore, and Dean didn’t have to deal with the marks all over his body, and the shape of him. 

He was just a few metres away now, a little closer than Dean would usually have been comfortable with. It turns out that the personal space issues that Cas had had might have had less to do with him being an angel and more to do with the skin he was wearing. Even though he was close, he was far enough that Dean couldn’t feel the heat coming off him, or his breath against his skin, or smell his hair. 

“I can empathise with that.” Jimmy said tiredly. He reached for the jug holding the coffee and grabbed himself a mug from the draining board. 

“I’m going to set off for the airport in about half an hour.” Dean told him. Jimmy nodded. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact. Dean was more than happy to let him. He contributed to that end by staring out into the yard with its pool, and the climbing flowers that decorated the aged stone walls. He wondered if the house was more to Jimmy’s taste or Marcus’, whether it would be painful for Jimmy to go on living there now Marcus was gone. Maybe he’d move out. The place was too beautiful for sadness. It was too beautiful for awkward silences, too. Dean felt rude muddying up the place with his poor social skills and the disgustingly awkward nature of his presence in the house. 

“Thank you for coming.” Jimmy whispered. Dean didn’t want to look at him because he sounded on the verge of tears. “It was good to see you, even under such sad circumstances. It meant a lot to have someone else there who… who knew his name, at least. Knew my name.” Jimmy murmured. A breeze got caught in the yard and made the few stray leaves on the stone floor swirl up into the sky for a moment. A few of them landed in the water, sending out circular ripples that caught the sun.

“Glad I could help.” Dean replied. Jimmy made a small strangled sound, which he tried to hide by clearing his throat. It made Dean wince. 

“You’ll get a taxi to the airport?” Jimmy asked. 

“Yeah, don't want to put you out or anything. And you should probably get some rest.” Dean answered. Jimmy sighed. 

“Yes.” Jimmy whispered. “I… I’m going now.” 

Dean finally turned around to face him. Jimmy’s arms were wrapped around his body like he was trying desperately to hold himself together. Dean looked at the floor because it was easier. There were shadows under Jimmy’s eyes and his stubble was just a little bit too long. He looked tiny and broken in his dressing gown. Dean could see him chained to a hospital bed by ventilators and heart monitors and drainage tubes. He could remember the dead weight of Cas that he’d carried into A&E, praying, praying that he would be alright. Days at his bedside clutching his hand. Sleepless nights in the corridor outside ICU, waiting for something – anything – to change. 

When he looked up, Jimmy had already gone. 

Dean straightened up, finished his coffee, and went back upstairs to the ridiculously lavish room Jimmy had let him stay in. The door to the other bedroom on the first floor was closed. Dean wondered if Jimmy had gone in there, or further upstairs. He didn’t call him to find out. He packed, and made the bed. He wondered idly if Jimmy paid people to do his housework. As soon as he had all of his things, he bolted back down the stairs and out of the house.

Rome was spectacular, but Dean barely saw it through his determined eyes as he sought out a taxi. When he finally got one, it took a good five minutes for him to communicate to the driver that he wanted to go to the airport. Dean leaned against the window and pretended to watch the gorgeous facades of houses zipping past, but his mind was still in Jimmy’s house. Some of it was still in that hospital waiting for Cas to wake up, even now. 

He had a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was missing something important. Maybe it was that, again, Jimmy hadn’t really said goodbye. He’d just told him he was leaving. Dean wondered if maybe he was asking for him to try and stop him from walking away. If he’d always been asking that, really, and that was why it had seemed so abrupt when he’d chosen to go. What did Jimmy want from him? Cas had already taken it all. Dean shifted uncomfortably, unable to ignore that Cas had taken it all from Jimmy, too.  
Jimmy was alone. He was in the place that Dean would be if he didn’t have Sam and Lily and the kids. There were days, he knew, that the only reason he got out of bed in the morning was to make them kids pancakes. He forced himself to smile because of Sam. He went through the motions, patching up their beat up house with time and care and love because of Lily, the way she made Sam seem at ease, how she helped him find a job, how she tried to do the same for Dean until it became only too obvious that he wasn’t going to be able to slip back into civilian life the way Sam and Lily had. 

Lily had found the Winchester brothers herself. She’d been the vessel of a low angel, and the only thing she could remember from that time was that Dean Winchester was saved, and his brother was the one true vessel of Lucifer, and had also been saved. She showed up pretty grubby, her shoes all torn and her clothes dirty. There were bits of stuff all tangled up in her long red hair. She was beautiful, and frightened. She spoke of being pressed into a small corner of her mind, having to watch things happen to her body as though it belonged to someone else. She had accepted her angel when she was twenty nine, and woke up years later in a body that had only aged a few months with a mind that hadn’t aged so much as been tortured almost into madness. 

She had flashes, she said, fleeting glimpses into memories that weren’t really hers. Sam said he thought that it was like her brain was trying to recalibrate itself, reallocating the information it had stored into places that made more sense now the angel in her mind had been banished by Cas’ ultimate sacrifice. She couldn’t feel her angel anymore, and she was lost without it, she told them. But she healed, she grew, she got better, stronger, and stronger than either Sam or Dean. She was the one that found the house, moved them into it, and went out looking for jobs. Sam would try and convince you otherwise but it was her that decided she and Sam would be together. 

Jimmy was functioning with the same gaps, the same holes in his head, only increased exponentially. Lily’s angel hadn’t died or been killed. Of course hers had fallen with the rest, but her angel had been in a vessel for years and understood better than most how to care for itself. They hadn’t really spoken. It had come to her in a dream, she said, and asked her permission. She’d agreed; she’d been at a low point in her life and was happy to take any escape from it. Jimmy had broken family ties to accept Cas into his life. If anything, from the sounds of it his life had been at a high point when he’d let Cas possess him. Yeah, possess was the right term. 

On top of that, Cas had abused Jimmy’s body to the point it had begun to fall apart, filling him with thousands of lost souls so that he could assume the role of God in the place of his absent Father. Wasn’t that sort of what Dean had done, too? Tried to fill the space his father had left behind? Even when they were kids, it was always Dean caring for Sam, always Dean who stepped in to protect his little brother. Dean literally sacrificed himself for Sam, the way that Cas had sacrificed himself for humanity. Dean frowned. He realised that they’d both been trying so hard to become the people that had let them down, and it had ended up with Dean being completely isolated and Cas… well. Cas was gone.  
Only where did that leave Jimmy? Broken on the ground, apparently. 

He should have said goodbye. He looked at the time on his phone – he would miss his flight if he went back. He was turning his back on Jimmy. He was the only one who knew what had happened to him. He had friends, sure. But they didn’t even know his real name. Jimmy had a fancy house and a flash car and expensive clothes but he had nothing. And part of that was Dean’s fault for being so angry when he came out of his coma, all because the angel who had been possessing him had given him his body back. 

Dean dialed Jimmy’s number. He listened to the dial tone twice. Jimmy wasn’t picking up. he tried to tell himself to relax – guy was probably busy puking or sleeping judging by how rough he’d looked. It wasn’t a big deal that he wasn’t answering. Hell, as far as Dean knew he never answered calls right away. It’s not like he knew enough about him to be familiar his cell phone habits. Dean tried him again. Still nothing. Not even an answer phone message. With a smile he remembered what Cas’ had been, all fumbling and confused. “I don’t understand – why do you want me to say my name?” Dean had listened to it over and over again before the cell phone company finally killed the number three years after Cas was gone. Listening and thinking, pleading desperately for him to say it. 

Jimmy wouldn’t say Cas’ name either. 

“Oh what the hell,” Dean grumbled to himself. “Can you turn this around?” Dean called loudly to the driver. He glanced into the mirror.

“Girare intorno?” the man asked. 

“I don’t know, go back! Turn around. Go back to where we came from.” Dean attempted. The driver began to turn around. “Thank you.” Dean sighed. 

“Idiota,” the driver muttered, under his breath.

“Hey! I understood that,” Dean growled. “I’m not that much of an ‘idiota’.”

When they got back to Jimmy’s, he threw a handful of euros at him and jumped out of the car. Dean rushed past the two cars parked in the driveway and yanked the door open. 

The house was as silent and empty as when they’d arrived. It rang in Dean’s ears. He ran through the huge open space to the curved staircase in the corner, taking the stairs two at a time. “Jimmy!” Dean yelled. There was no response. He flung open the door to the room of paintings, but it was empty. He peered into the bathroom he’d never used; that was empty too

“Son of a bitch!” he groaned as he ran to the next flight of stairs. The second floor was the same as the first, with two bedrooms. They were both empty. One had two single beds in rather than one double. Dean made a sound that could only be described as a snarl and started up the next staircase. “Jimmy!” he called again. Still no reply. He could hear running water. 

The top floor had one door. It was ajar. Dean pushed it wide. It was immediately clear that this was the master suite in the house, and that it was the room Marcus and Jimmy would have shared. The décor was different in this part of the house, the neutral colours exchanged for shades of grey and purple. The bed was perfectly made. There was a window seat, and it’s decorative cushions had been arranged into one heap. There was a blanket strewn on the floor beside it. Dean wondered if Jimmy had been sleeping there.  
Dean walked into the room. He could still hear running water. “Jimmy?” he asked. Still no reply. Now he was close to the bed he could see that there was dust on the silken sheets, a layer of it on the bedside table. There was a small dish with loose change in it on one side of the bed. Dean was breaking down the scene, still the hunter he had always been, walking slowly with gentle footfalls on the carpet which made his approach silent. The bedroom was huge, with one wall completely covered with mirrored cupboards that made it seem even bigger. In it, Dean could see a huge black grand piano. Beside it, there was a wall that appeared to have been placed randomly. It didn’t touch the ceiling or the walls beside it. That was where the sound of water came from.

Dean approached like he was expecting there to be a demon crouched behind it. He couldn’t stop his hand from reaching into his pocket, slotting his keys between his fingers. He put his back to the wall’s narrow edge and took a breath before he peered around.

There was a claw footed bath stood in the middle of a pool of black tiles on the ground. Dean could see the pipework rising from the ground like a fountain, splitting into the ornate silver tap. The water was running from it. It was over flowing onto the tiles. The carpet squelched when Dean stepped around the wall. One slender arm was draped over the edge of the bath. Jimmy’s face was pale, his head hanging back over the edge of the bath, exposing the pale flesh of his neck. His lips were dry and cracked. Dean’s brain took a few seconds to make sense of what he was seeing. 

“Holy shit.” Dean groaned. Dean grabbed Jimmy by the shoulders and hoisted him up in the bath. His eyes half opened lazily. “What did you do?” Dean demanded. Jimmy didn’t say anything. His eyes were unfocused. “What did you do!” Dean shook him. Jimmy’s gaze rolled over the piano. There was a pot of pills on the seat, open and empty. “How many did you take?” Dean asked, but he knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of him. He turned off the tap, still supporting Jimmy with one arm, and pulled out the plug. “Oh fucking hell,” Dean groaned. He climbed into the still half full tub with Jimmy, wrapping one arm around him. With the other hand, he stuck two fingers down Jimmy’s throat. He blanched, and at first nothing happened, then all of a sudden it was like the previous evening, only Dean could make out half dissolved pills in the puke. 

“Great, there you go. Would you look at that?” Dean said. He rubbed Jimmy’s back in small circles and gave him a moment to recover before making him sick again. “It's gonna be alright.” Dean muttered. Jimmy spluttered. He hang forward over the edge of the bath and Dean’s arm panting. “Shit, my phone,” Dean realised, fumbling with in his pocket. It seemed intact. “Fuck what’s the emergency number in Italy, damn it?” he growled, shifting so he could move Jimmy back into the tub, across his chest like he had been the night before. “Jimmy, dude. What’s the number?” Dean pleaded. Jimmy’s eyes were unfocused. He was still panting. “Oh god, Jimmy, come on!” Dean hissed. Jimmy’s eyes slid shut.  
Dean’s hands were shaking. He found Sam’s number, called it. “Yeah?” Sam answered.

“Sammy, what’s the number for emergency services in Rome?” Dean asked him hurriedly. His voice was loud with desperation. 

“What’s happened? Are you alright?” Sam fussed. 

“Dammit Sam, the number! Now!” Dean yelled. 

“Oh – 112. Dean, what’s-”

“No time.” Dean growled and hung up. He called the number. “Yes my friend tried to kill himself.”

“Alright, so you’ll require an ambulance service. Is your friend conscious?” the operator asked in English that was smoothly accented in Italian. 

“I-” Dean began. He shook Jimmy. “Jimmy?” He asked. Nothing. “No, he’s unconscious.” Dean replied. 

“How has he tried to kill himself?” 

“Pills, he’s taken pills!” Dean shouted. 

“Alright, help will be with you soon, don’t worry. An ambulance is on it’s way. Do you know what pills your friend has taken?” the operator asked. Dean glanced at the bottle.

“No idea.” Dean confessed. 

“That’s alright, just stay with your friend. Did you say his name was Jimmy?” the operator continued. She seemed unfazed. Rather than calming Dean it made him more frantic. He was rocking himself and Jimmy back and forth, back and forth. 

“Y- no. His name’s… Tom.” Dean answered.

“Right, and what’s your name?” she said kindly.

“Mark,” Dean answered, using the only name that sprang to mind that wasn’t ‘Cas’ or ‘Jimmy’.

“Help will be with you soon, Mark,” she assured him. She was right. Within a few minutes Dean could hear the sirens and gently lay Jimmy in the bath to rush to the door to wave them down. They looked at the bottle, and strapped him to a stretcher. They let Dean sit in the ambulance. There was nothing for him to look at besides the needles piercing Jimmy’s skin, the mask they slipped over his face. At one point the whole ambulance sang a piercingly loud song and Jimmy twitched and when Dean could see his face again there was a tube between his lips that replaced the mask.

Sam was calling and calling him. Dean sat with his head between his knees. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” was all he could say to Sam, to the doctors asking him about Jimmy, to anyone at all. He said it over and over and over again and it became like a mantra. He clung to it desperately. The only thing he could be sure of was that he didn’t know. Jimmy was in cardiac arrest, and then he wasn’t, and then he was unconscious. Dean kept saying “I don’t know” whenever anyone spoke. He fell asleep with his forehead against the back of Jimmy’s hand. He pretended not to pray to Cas, but he did. He dreamt about phone calls, and missing friends, and blue, blue eyes.


	5. Get Back On the Horse

Cassie peered around his father’s leg, his wide green eyes scrutinising Jimmy, assessing him, taking him in. Dean wondered how much those eyes could pick up on, if they noticed how tired Jimmy looked, or picked up on the greyness of his complexion, or how he stood like it was taking everything he had left for him to be standing in front of them. Sam was watching Dean cautiously, and it was obvious that even if Cassie hadn’t picked up on those things, Sam had. 

“This is Jimmy. He’s coming to live with us for a little while. I told you in the car, remember?” Sam said gently. He ruffled Cassie’s dark hair and was replied to only when Cassie chose to redirect his stare back to his father. Sam smiled encouragingly, but Dean could tell he wasn’t happy with the situation. He’d made as much explicitly clear on the phone. 

“In our house?” Cassie asked. His little voice made Dean crack a smile. Jimmy looked about as comfortable with the situation as Sam did. 

“Yeah, Cassie, in our house,” Dean explained, and reached down to swing Cassie up onto his hip. From the new vantage point, he surveyed Jimmy some more. He stuck a finger in his nose absent mindedly, and Jimmy finally smiled a little. Sam sighed with relief as Dean felt the same emotion fluttering in his chest. 

“Is that okay?” Jimmy asked Cassie directly. Cassie looked first at Dean, and then at Sam. They chuckled. 

“Yeah, it’s okay little buddy,” Dean assured him. 

“It’s okay.” Cassie informed Jimmy. 

“Well, there we are then.” Jimmy replied. He smiled a little wider. 

Cassie insisted that Jimmy sit in the back seat with him and that Dean and Sam ride in the front. Sam drove, and Dean used the rear-view mirror to watch Cassie watch Jimmy. 

“Daddy?” Cassie called after they’d managed to navigate their way out of the airport’s car park.

“Yeah, bud?” was Sam’s automatic response. 

“He's going to sleep in my room isn't he?” Cassie’s voice sounded almost awed.

“He sure is. That’s why we moved all your stuff into Bobby’s room this morning, right?” Sam reminded him. Cassie nodded. Jimmy looked as though he might cry.

“I wouldn’t have minded sleeping on the couch-”

“It’s fine. Honestly, man. I would have minded you sleeping on the couch even if you don’t.” Sam insisted firmly. Jimmy turned abruptly to stare out of the window. Sam sighed. 

Silence made the car seem cramped and infinitely massive all at once. 

Dean tried to focus on the trees that were already zipping past outside. Their house was nestled in the forests just outside of the tiny town of Badger, but Sam always drove the scenic route my default unless he was making a school run. He had to take the car slow down these roads because they didn’t get gritted as thoroughly as those on the main route, and everywhere was covered in a thick blanket of snow as it always was that time of year. The house was an ornate thing, built by some rich person for god knows what reason. They had about an acre of the forest to themselves, and there were even a couple of beat-up stables that Dean had been meaning to fix up for years and years so that they could maybe get a pony for the kids. 

“I hope you brought plenty of sweaters, the house gets pretty cold,” Sam offered lightly as he pulled up in front of the house.

“Actually, I didn’t bring anything besides what I’m wearing.” Jimmy confessed quietly. Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean. “I… I didn’t want to go back to the house,” he whispered. Sam closed his eyes.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Sam muttered. 

“You can have my blankie,” Cassie offered with a shrug. Sam chuckled. 

“That’s very nice of you,” Sam praised him. Cassie beamed. He watched Jimmy expectantly.

“Oh, thank you very much but I think your blankie would rather sleep with you.” Jimmy replied. Dean grinned. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. Sam’s expression hinted that he might have felt the same.

“Manny doesn’t like it.” Cassie said with a shrug. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Manny?” Dean asked. 

“Yeah – there have been serious developments with the whole ‘imaginary friend’ thing these past couple of weeks. Cassie misses having Uncle Dean to twist around his little finger, so he’s made up someone new to boss around.” Sam explained. “And it looks like he’s going to have a go at bossing Jimmy around as well.” Sam said with a nod towards them; indeed, Cassie had Jimmy by the hand and was pointing out into the trees. Jimmy was nodding compliantly. He didn’t look like he wanted saving; in fact he was engrossed.  
Bobby took to him the same, and by dinner time Jimmy was on the rug in the middle of the living room, helping Bobby build an aeroplane out of Legos whilst simultaneously critiquing Cassie’s most recent art pieces. Lily came home from work, and regarded the temporary addition to their household with the same concern as Sam had. “It’s not that I’m saying you’ve made the wrong decision or anything I just… argh, I don’t know. It’s weird,” she whispered to Dean in the kitchen. He sighed. He peered over her shoulder through the living room door; Bobby was running around with the plane held tight in his hands now.

“Just imagine how weird it is for me,” Dean replied with a shrug. Lily eyed him sadly.

“That’s what I mean. Are you going to be able to deal with this?” she asked him softly. “I know you don’t like to talk about things but, look; Sam’s told me about Castiel and what happened with you and Jimmy…” Lily shook her head. 

“Cas is gone,” Dean said simply. Lily hugged him briefly. 

“Let’s order pizza,” Lily said, clapping her hands together.

“Maybe my brother does have good taste in women, after all,” Dean replied by way of agreement. 

“Nope, he just got lucky when I chose to stick around.” She replied.

Cassie insisted on slices being set aside for Manny, much to Sam’s irritation. He also refused to sit anywhere but right next to Jimmy so he could continue to stare up at his face the whole time he was eating. It took some convincing to get Cassie to allow Dean to bathe him rather than Jimmy, and when he was tucked into the spare bed in Bobby’s room, he insisted Jimmy come in to say goodnight. Dean hovered outside. When Jimmy emerged, he looked conflicted. Dean just waited for him to say something.

“He’s a good kid.” Jimmy murmured.

“Yeah. They’re all good kids,” Dean acknowledged. Jimmy looked at the photograph on the wall opposite him. It was of all three of them in the garden in the summer. Cassie had a little party hat with the number two on it on his head, typically it was askew. Dean smiled fondly.

“Is Cassie short for…?” Jimmy asked, unable to make himself say his full name.

“Yeah.” Dean replied. Jimmy wrapped his arms tight around himself. It made Dean think about the blotchy scars on his shoulder blades. He cleared his throat. “You’re pretty good with him.” Dean told him. Jimmy smiled, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“We always wanted kids, Marcus and I. It was always the plan. For years I wasn’t… I wasn’t in the right place in my head for it. Then, when I was, we’d just started looking at adoption and. Well. Marcus got his diagnosis. Didn’t think it was right to do it after that.” Jimmy’s voice was a hoarse whisper. It had been since he’d woken up in hospital four days before. The doctors said it was because of the ventilator tube he’d had in his throat, that it was temporary. It made him sound like Cas. Dean was no longer sure if that was a good or a bad thing. 

“I, uh. These kids mean the world to me, you know?” Dean replied uselessly. Jimmy smiled. He was exhausted. Dean was exhausted too. They’d flown for hours and Jimmy had been hassled since they arrived. His charcoal hair was messed up by kids hands, and his clothes were crumpled from being slept in on the plane. 

“I think I’m going to go to bed now,” Jimmy told Dean. Dean just nodded. 

He went downstairs, hearing the door shut as Jimmy went to bed. He rummaged in the fridge and found the Tupperware box that Sam had put Manny’s portion of pizza in. He opened it and grimaced; somehow it had turned funny in the few hours it had been out of his sight. He hoped there was nothing wrong with the rest of it, and tossed the slices in the trash. 

After that, Dean tried to go to bed too, but found himself hovering outside Jimmy’s door after everyone else was asleep. It happened the next night as well, and the one after that. 

He didn’t want to admit it to himself but it was becoming a habit. Every time Jimmy was out of his sight, even for a few moments, Dean felt as though he was on the verge of a panic attack. After Jimmy had been with them for a couple of weeks, Dean had almost given up on the pretence of using his bedroom altogether. He went and lay on the bed for a few minutes more for the sake of upholding the idea of bedtime to himself than anything else. Then, when he was sure Sam and Lily were in bed, he stalked back onto the landing to assume his post next to the door to Cassie’s room, in which Jimmy was sleeping.

Hopefully he was sleeping. He could be doing anything. He might have found pills or a knife – Dean was sure those scars on his arms must have been from a previous attempt. He just didn’t trust Jimmy with himself at all. Why the hell was that? A little voice suggested that it was because he hated seeing Cas get hurt, get dragged so low and painfully through it all, but that thought grated on him. Cas wasn’t getting hurt – he was actually part of whatever was hurting Jimmy. Whatever that was.

All Jimmy did was sleep, and play with the kids. In the mornings, when Cassie was at pre-school and Bobby and Jess were in actual school, Jimmy would just sit in the living room silently. Lily and Sam both had jobs that they were at, and Dean didn’t know what to say to him when they were alone. So Dean just went ahead and acted like Jimmy wasn’t there at all, and Jimmy went on acting like he was alone to. He’d ride in the car with Dean silently when they went to pick Cassie up, and they’d all jabber together happily. He’d play with the kids, baking, building, drawing or sticking whatever they wanted. He even helped Jess with her math homework. 

But as soon as they had gone to bed, Jimmy shut down again. He’d sit in the corner of the room whilst Sam, Lily and Dean watched TV, but he’d politely excuse himself after half an hour, if that, to shut himself back in Cassie’s room. 

“I’m sure he’s alright. My four-year-old’s room isn’t exactly fraught with peril.” Dean jumped at Lily’s voice; he’d been half asleep against the wall. She handed him a mug and sat down next to him on the floor. He sipped the drink – deliciously rich hot chocolate. 

“Yeah, well. You never know.” Dean mumbled. Lily patted him gently on the back.

“I get why you’re frightened of leaving him on his own,” she kept her arm around him. He hadn’t realised how true what she’d said was. “He’ll be alright,” Lily promised him. “You got to stop hovering so much. You crowd him and you’ll make him feel trapped.” She explained. Dean sighed. 

“I saw him try to, you know. You’d think a little hovering was warranted,” Dean grumbled. Lily smiled sympathetically.

“Yeah, well. Just remember about personal space.” She reminded him. Dean scoffed, then cringed, remembering urging Cas to do the same thing two decades before. It was all like some horrible joke. Was it regret that made him ache to take those words back, shame? Longing? Longing to make something, anything just that little bit different so that maybe things didn’t have to be the way they were. When he thought of Cas Dean always felt like he was struggling to speak, but had no idea what he was supposed to be saying. 

“Would you try and talk to him?” Dean pleaded. 

“You know I have already. He’s not in the right place to do that yet, Dean. Don’t push him.” Lily replied softly. “And get some sleep. You’re no good to anyone half-conscious,” she teased, getting to her feet. “It’ll get better,” she assured him, serious again. Dean sighed doubtfully. She went back to hers and Sam’s room. Dean leant back against that wall and half slept there until the sun rose, but it was the last time he let himself do that. The next night, he forced himself to stay in bed. He barely slept a wink, but he managed to keep himself from going to press his ear against the door of Cassie’s room more than twice. 

The season began to change, but Jimmy didn’t. The snow melted but the ice of whatever Jimmy was stuck inside remained steadfastly frozen. Dean had no idea how to begin chipping at it. What if he hit the wrong spot and hurt Jimmy? He couldn’t deal with the idea of that in his head, so instead he allowed things to continue as they had since the second day that Jimmy had stayed with them. Jimmy was getting thinner, not massively quickly or grossly underweight, but as the weeks passed by there got to be less and less of him, little by little. His hair grew out so long that it was almost in his eyes, and his beard became raggedy. Dean waited for the coldness to recede but it didn’t. 

One night in March, Dean was awake and in the kitchen. It was gone midnight, but he’d fallen asleep on the couch and Lily had been the one doing the cooking so there was a mound of washing up that needed doing. If he had left it the kids wouldn’t have had any bowls to eat their cereal from, and they were more inclined to improvise than wash bowls for themselves. Dean was humming Metallica to himself and fondly remembering the time he’d come downstairs to find Bobby eating Cheerio’s from a frying pan, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He as good as jumped out of his skin and whipped around to face whoever it was, still clutching the cheese grater he’d been washing and the cloth in his other hand like the shittiest defensive weaponry south of the North Pole. 

“Christ, Jimmy, you scared the life out of me,” Dean gasped. It was the most he’d said to him for weeks. Jimmy dropped his hand and swayed awkwardly. 

“Sorry I…sorry.” Jimmy mumbled. Dean held his gaze for a few seconds before Jimmy turned sharply from him. Dean sighed and turned back to the washing up. 

“It’s fine, you just made me jump,” Dean grumbled, shaking bubbles from a spoon before putting on the draining board. He didn’t want to think about Cas appearing from thin air, but he couldn’t help it. His brain seemed to be wired to associate Jimmy and Cas beyond sharing a body, and was always looking for ways to link to two of them even as it searched desperately to define them from each other. 

“I dreamed about Castiel.” Jimmy said. Dean froze. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Jimmy use his name since they’d been reunited. “I… he was lost. It… something bad was going to happen.” Jimmy mumbled. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid. I… I was frightened. I didn’t want to be alone.” Jimmy admitted. Dean’s body moved without his permission, his feet striding over to Jimmy, his hand sliding up his arm to rest on his shoulder. He was wearing an old t-shirt of Sam’s, Dean noticed. He looked lost in it. Then again, he always looked lost. 

“It’s alright. It was just a dream.” Dean promised him. Jimmy’s eyes were glassy and blue and they seemed to stare right through Dean’s skin. He shuddered.

“I know, I know. It just... felt so real.” Jimmy explained. “He felt so real,” he added in a whisper. Dean pulled him into a hug, before releasing him and taking a few steps back. Jimmy looked startled. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Yeah, I... I get that too," Dean mumbled. Jimmy's eyes opened a little wider at his words and Dean realised he may have revealed more of himself than he'd intended. He wasn't sure what he could say to negate what he'd just admitted, although even after having fifteen years to stew over what it might say Dean was still at a loss as to what it actually meant. Jimmy looked like he knew, though, and the sympathy with which he was regarding him made Dean itch all over. 

“I hate sleeping alone,” Jimmy confessed. Dean leaned against the cupboards and resisted the urge to recoil from the sensitivity of what Jimmy had just told him. Sammy was right, as much as it pained Dean to admit it. Still, his aversion to emotional expression had been a life-long companion so it wasn't surprising that he had to keep reminding himself not to try and laugh what Jimmy had just said off by shoe-horning in some gag. Hadn’t he been waiting desperately for Jimmy to open up for weeks? Right. So shying away from that wouldn’t make any sense. Luckily Jimmy began to speak again before Dean had the chance to cut in; “Marcus used to curl himself around me, ‘to keep me safe’, he said. I have nightmare and he. He said it was the only way to stop me screaming out.” Dean's stomach felt like it had shriveled up on itself like a raisin. 

Dean hadn’t heard screams, only muffled whimpers and little cries that sounded like pain, but were becoming familiar. They were little signals that Jimmy was still there, still alive on the other side of that door. Every time Jimmy went to bed it was like he became Schrödinger’s Cat, both dead and alive all at once. Dean blinked; he was always both dead and alive. Dead Cas, alive Jimmy. No. He mustn’t allow himself to think like that. It didn’t help.

“He was a part of me, and I felt him die.” Jimmy’s voice was surprisingly even and calm. “Marcus understood. He helped me, held me… loved me. Castiel left, you made me leave, but Marcus understood. And now he’s gone, and I’m here,” he continued with no hint of panic - or any emotions at all, for that matter – in his voice. The words settled between them like dust. It struck Dean that he hadn't said anything for too long, that this was really a moment where he should be comforting him or something along those lines, but he didn't know how to approach him. The seconds-long hug he'd given Jimmy before hadn't seemed to help matters at all. 

“The world would be a shittier place without you in it,” Dean offered, shuffling awkwardly and folding his arms across his chest. Jimmy smiled wistfully. Dean wanted to shake him; it would be easier if he was yelling, screaming, tearing the place up. That was what had been so disturbing since he'd got there; how calm and... empty Jimmy had seemed. It was nothing like he'd been the day Dean had arrived in Rome; it had been like Jimmy couldn't keep his emotions contained and they were exploding out of him in broken plates and shouting and glasses of wine and puke. It seemed to Dean that the calm could only last so long, like Jimmy was a bottle of soda that was being shaken and shaken and shaken, and for a while the plastic would hold the liquid inside but eventually, the pressure was going to get to much and it would burst. And when it did it was going to be messy.

“Thank you for saying that,” he sighed. Dean twitched. The implications of that sentence made his skin crawl. “I’m sorry. For what you saw.” Jimmy added. 

“I’m just glad someone got there in time,” Dean mumbled. Jimmy’s smile turned bitter. He remembered how Cas had been when he’d come back from purgatory. What he’d said about deserving to stay there. Dean shuddered and tried to disguise it by re-folding his arms. Jimmy watched him for a few moments, his head tilted slightly to the side. Dean wasn’t sure if that was something that Jimmy had always done, that his body had continued to even when there was somebody else operating it, or if it was something of Cas that had imprinted itself into the muscles of Jimmy’s body. He wondered if Jimmy knew, if he wanted to know if he knew. 

Jimmy went to bed. Dean slept on the floor outside of Cassie's room, and listened to Jimmy dreaming about Cas, his eyes stayed closed for longer and longer each time he blinked, until he was dreaming of Cas, too.


	6. Behind Closed Doors

“…and then we add the dry ingredients to the wet ones, oh. Cassie! Be careful there buddy!” Dean heard Jimmy’s voice drifting out of the kitchen window as he shut off the lawn mower. 

“Got a flour all on me!” Cassie giggled. Dean smiled. He heard Jimmy laugh. 

“You sure did. Next time, pour it in rather than tipping it all at once, alright?”

“Right!” Cassie said determinedly. Dean chuckled. The motor on the food processor started whirring again, and Dean took it as a queue to carry on mowing. 

It was a beautiful day, the sun shining through the leaves to make a pretty mottled pattern on the grass. Summer seemed to have decided it was time to take over. Dean eyed the ramshackle stables as he made his way down the garden again. Maybe this would be the year he got finally got round to fixing it up. With a grin, he wondered if Jimmy would help him out. He didn’t seem the DIY type. He pictured him frowning at a box of nails and chuckled. 

When he was done, he strolled in through the open kitchen door, and the fresh smell of mown grass was replaced by the homely one of baking cakes. “Uncle Dean’s finished!” Cassie squealed. He was, indeed, covered from head to toe in flour and brown sugar. Dean ruffled his hair and a cloud of it rose like smoke. 

“We’d better make sure you’re all cleaned up before your mom gets home,” Dean prompted him. Cassie stuck his tongue out. “Hey, you cheeky little…” Dean growled jokily and lifted Cassie above his head. Cassie screeched. 

Jimmy appeared in the living room doorway, half-way into a new shirt. When his head popped out of the collar his hair was all ruffled like it was windswept. He smiled, Cas’ eyes twinkling. Dean looked away, back at little Cassie in the air above him. He swung him back onto the ground.

“You’re right, Cassie, I think he’s done,” Jimmy acknowledged. Cassie ran over to the fridge and yanked open the door so hard that the milk wobbled precariously. Jimmy leapt forward before Dean had the chance and saved a jar of jam. “Shall I carry it?” Jimmy whispered to Cassie. Cassie nodded, his little face deadly serious. Jimmy turned around, holding a jug in both his hands. Cassie slammed the fridge door shut and the contents clinked worryingly. Jimmy rolled his eyes. 

“We made lemonade!” Cassie announced. 

“We did,” Jimmy agreed, pouring some into three glasses. 

“Damn, Jimmy. Lemonade and cupcakes? We’ll make a housewife out of you yet,” Dean joked with a wink. Jimmy smiled sadly, and sipped his drink. Cassie tipped his up to far and it dripped down his chin, making little drops of colour show through the flour on his shirt. 

“We made enough so that everyone can have just, um, one cup of the lemonade. But there are two cupcakes for everybody, and an extra one that Jimmy said I can give to Manny because he likes to have more than everyone else.” Cassie explained, using his fingers to demonstrate how many he meant to Dean. 

“Three cupcakes for Manny? He’s going to get fat!” Dean joked. Cassie looked hurt. “No, buddy, I didn’t mean it. He can’t get fat, can he?” Dean reconciled. Cassie nodded.

“He can’t actually eat the cupcakes. He just makes them go bad.” Cassie explained. Dean smiled at him. They finished their lemonade and Cassie ran outside to play. 

“Are you alright?” Jimmy asked Dean. They were standing side by side. Cassie was sat in the corner of the garden now, poking the ground with a twig. 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean replied, glancing sideways at Jimmy. He was looking at his hands. “Are you, you know. Okay?” 

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.” Jimmy answered, smiling weakly. “It’s good to have got away for a while. I don’t think I couldn’t coped on my own.” 

“You seemed to have chosen to opt out,” Dean grumbled. Jimmy sighed. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that,” he told him honestly. 

“No. You’re right,” Jimmy answered. Dean nodded. 

“So, um. You’re not planning on going back or anything?” Dean asked, suddenly worried. Jimmy laughed.

“Oh, god no. I mean, unless I’ve out-stayed my welcome?” Jimmy’s voice sounded strained. 

“As if you could. You pay for like half the mortgage, which you really don’t need to do-”

“I wish you’d let me give more-”

“Hey, no. You’re free childcare too. Not to mention, Cassie would be devastated if you left,” Dean assured him with a smile. “So- so would I.” Dean admitted quietly. He stared out of the window again. Jimmy smiled quietly to himself, but as usual declined to comment on Dean’s half-whispered confessions. Dean was only part glad about that. He told himself he was entirely pleased that Jimmy almost ignored it when his lips spoke without permission, but it was a lie.

“I was thinking. It’s been almost half a year. I… I think I’m ready to go back,” Jimmy confessed. Dean tried to hide his sadness. “No! Not to stay, I just mean. To get some things. And, I… I want to scatter Marcus’ ashes. I don’t think he’d like the idea of stayed stuffed in a metal box forever.” Jimmy explained. Dean sighed with relief. “I don’t want to go alone.” 

Dean watched Cassie drawing with his stick. Kid was going to be filthy. Lily would go ape-shit if they hadn’t bathed him by the time she got in from work. Cassie ran to the edge of the garden and started picking up more sticks, and fistfuls of grass. He scattered them over the muddy lines he’d carved. 

“Obviously, I’d understand if you don’t want to come with me. I’m sure that Sam would love to see Rome; he’s so enthusiastic about the history, you know. I’ll go over a weekend so he doesn’t have to take time away from the office…” Jimmy was muttering by the end of it. 

“Yeah, I’m sure Sammy would love to see Rome. But, you know. If, uh, if you’d rather it was me. I’d be up for that,” Dean stuttered uselessly. Jimmy beamed.

“Yeah?” he asked for confirmation. Dean nodded. “Great, well. When do you think?” he pressed. Dean shrugged. 

“When you’re ready,” Dean replied. 

“I mean, obviously I’ll pay for flights and everything, so it’s not a problem, we can go when it’s easiest for you-”

“Jimmy.” Dean cut him off before he could really get going. He put a hand on Jimmy’s arm. “We can go when you’re ready to go.” Dean assured him. Jimmy took a deep breath. 

“Okay,” he said on the exhale. “Sorry.”

“God dammit, C- Jimmy,” Dean’s heart thudded louder. Jimmy looked a little hurt, his eyes snapping away from Dean and back outside. “What is it with you and apologising? God dammit.” Dean was just talking to pretend he hadn’t just done what he’d just done. “Oh fucking hell,” he groaned. “Oh god, what the hell.” He pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and strode determinedly to the back door. “Cassie! Cassie you got to come in for a bath!” Dean yelled. 

“Yaaaay!” Cassie squealed, running towards him. 

“I’ll do it,” Jimmy cut in, stepping in front of Dean to scoop Cassie up when he was close enough. Cassie yipped like a puppy. Jimmy carried him over his shoulder. He didn’t look at Dean when he passed him. Dean heard him thunder up the stairs, and then a few moments later the tap started running.

How the hell had he let that happen, Christ. Congratulations, Dean Winchester, you are officially the biggest jerk in the history of man. He could break things, he supposed, but then he’d have to clean up the mess and he couldn’t be bothered. So instead he started to make dinner in a passive aggressive manner. 

“Did the oven do something to personally offend you or are you beating it up on behalf of everyone?” Lily asked as she hung her keys on the hook by the back door. Dean glanced up at her and she rolled her eyes. “Where’s the dynamic duo?” she asked. “Oh, sorry. Trio. Can’t forget about Manny,” she added exasperatedly. 

“Cassie’s in the bath,” Dean explained. Lily nodded; she understood she wasn’t going to get anything else out of him for now. She wasn’t like Sam, who felt it necessary to needle him until he started to bleed out his issues rather than wait for him to get round to it in his own time. Admittedly, Dean was inclined to ever get round to it as sharing his feelings wasn’t exactly something he wanted to do in anyone’s time, let alone his own. On this occasion, however, Sam seemed to have known exactly what had happened. He cornered Dean when Jimmy and Lily were upstairs putting the kids to bed. Jess was having some kind of essay crisis and was hyperventilation in her bedroom. 

“You’re such a jerk,” Sam hissed under his breath. Dean glowered at him.

“What the hell are you talking about, bitch?” Dean retorted defensively. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Sam growled. Dean widened his eyes and stuck out his bottom lip as if to say ‘no I fucking don’t’ with as much sass as possible. Sam narrowed his eyes back at him. “You called him Cas.” 

“No…” Dean began.

“Right, you almost called him Cas, you started to call him Cas, you stuttered with the wrong letter. Whatever. You were going to call him Cas, weren’t you,” Sam glowered at him.

“But I didn’t,” Dean pointed out.

“Sometimes I feel like I have four kids, not three,” Sam spat. Dean straightened. Sam was so freakishly tall that it barely made a difference. Made Dean feel a little better though.

“I practically raised you, asshole,” Dean reminded him. Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, and I’ve been taking care of you for the last fifteen years, I think we’re square,” Sam replied sourly. Dean grimaced.

“I do all the housework, I fucking cook all your meals, for Christ’s sake,” Dean said pleadingly. 

“You can’t get a job! You barely sleep! But, this isn’t about that. This is about Jimmy, Dean. That’s right. Jimmy. Not Castiel.”

“Don’t you start with that bullshit-”

“What bullshit?” Jimmy’s voice stunned them both into silence. He was holding an empty mug. He looked back and forth between Dean and Sam, then nodded. “Oh. That bullshit.” 

“Alright, Jimmy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” Dean stopped mid-sentence. Jimmy’s blue eyes were fixed somewhere to the right of Dean’s shoulder, steady and piercing, like a cat watching someone dangle a string. He didn’t look sad or disappointed – in fact his expression didn’t express anything at all about what he was feeling. Dean could only stare at him and try to work out what was going on inside his head whilst he tried desperately to ignore Sammy’s scalding glare. Finally, Jimmy sighed and his eyes closed, allowing Dean to gather his wits a little.

“I’m sorry, alright?” Dean spluttered as soon as he was capable. Jimmy just nodded. He put his empty mug beside the sink and left silently. Sam shoved Dean back, and followed him, after shooting Dean a look that quite clearly said ‘I-hope-you-go-and-think-about-what-you’ve-done’. Dean tried to shrug off the confrontation, washed the dishes, and slunk off to his room to play music loud and pretend he wasn’t a waste of space. 

Sam hadn’t been taking care of him, had he? No. He’d been a mess for a while after they lost Cas and it had taken him a few years to adjust to not risking his life every day, but he was fairly sure that he was capable of caring for himself. Sam had adjusted to civilian life much faster, and maybe a little more effectively. Sure he had a job and a family and Dean was just a tag along, but Sam had never been happy as a hunter. He was always whining about getting away from it all and trying to live a ‘normal’ life like the one he’d somehow stumbled into. Not like Dean. 

Hunting was his whole world. He lived and breathed for it. He was still a hunter now, even all this time after there was no need for him to be. He always would be. And that was fine, right? Sure, it wasn’t necessary for him to have the reflexes he did, and perhaps it wasn’t normal for a man in his late forties to be quite so obsessed with maintaining them. He could run eight miles through the forests around Badger and punch right through a plank of wood. In the evenings he knuckled down and forced his eyes to stay open to read and reread Sam’s old books about demon-lore, witchcraft, even a beginner’s guide to learning Latin. 

Yeah, it had been a decade and a half since anything even remotely supernatural had shown up, but Dean insisted on painting in wards around the windows and doors of the house just in case. He’d become a dab hand at it, able to draw the swirling stars like he was signing his name. Maybe the next time he touched them up, Jimmy could help, add a splash of colour or something like that. Then again, that might go badly, considering Dean’s only experience with Jimmy’s artwork. 

He hadn’t asked for any canvases or paint or anything, so Dean guessed that maybe it was a sort of coping mechanism for him. He didn’t want to think about what Jimmy had said about Marcus telling him he couldn’t talk about it, or the fact that Dean himself seemed to have made it into his paintings. In fact, he didn’t want to think about Jimmy at all. There were too many crossed wires there and the whole situation was more uncomfortable than anybody wanted to admit. 

Jimmy was not Castiel. Jimmy was soft and sweet, he baked with the kids and he laughed and smiled. He blushed when Dean said hello to him, he ducked his head to hide his face whenever Dean’s eyes trailed over the scars on his arms, the flicked top of the ones on his chest like white tongues pressed into his skin. He smelled like fruit, and Dean loved showering right after he did because he always left the bathroom smelling like he did. 

Cas had been hard edges, that little tilt of his head that could disarm Dean so completely was the only thing that made him seem human. Well, maybe not the only thing. He always felt very human in Dean’s arms. But that was actually Jimmy, it had always been Jimmy. Those wide eyes that seemed so like they belonged to Cas never really had, had they? Were the things that Dean loved about Cas just things that were Jimmy? 

Dean was still sat cross legged on the floor in front of his wardrobe when he heard a knock at the door. “Hold on,” he called, carefully folding Cas’ trench coat into a square, brushing his fingers over the bloodstains soaked into the fabric before placing it gently in it’s shoebox. The person knocked again. “Just a sec,” Dean promised, and shut the box back in the wardrobe. When he opened the door, there he was, all blue-eyed and small and blushing. 

“Hello, Dean,” Jimmy muttered. Dean swallowed. He must have just got out of the shower, his hair was wet and sticking to his forehead, and a towel was slung over his shoulder, and the smell of blueberries or whatever it was clung to him more strongly than ever. Dean wasn’t sure why he seemed to always get dressed in the bathroom rather than waiting until he was back in Cassie’s room – maybe he didn’t feel comfortable. Maybe he was worried the ragged scars on his chest would frighten the kids. Maybe he was just shy. What the hell did it matter, anyway?

“Hey.” Dean managed to say. Jimmy smiled.

“Friday?” he asked. Dean didn’t understand what he meant at first. He’d assumed he’d been uninvited from Jimmy’s trip to Italy. A slow smile crept over his face, but Jimmy looked nervous. He kept knotting his hands together and breaking them apart again and again.

“Sure,” Dean agreed. Jimmy ducked his head to hide a smile. 

“Alright then.” Jimmy scrutinised Dean for a moment. “Are you alright?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. 

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean tried to brush him off, angrily wiping his cheeks with the heel of his hand. He hadn’t been crying. The wardrobe was dusty, that was all. Made his eyes water. He absolutely had not been crying at all. Jimmy looked as though he was going to push Dean for an explanation a bit more but he never got the chance because all of a sudden Cassie wailed like he’d been stabbed in the foot.

Dean leaped forward. He was in Bobby’s room, Cassie in his arms, way before he heard Sam thundering across the hallway. When his stricken face appeared in the doorway, Dean only managed to stop himself from making a sarcastic comment about how his reflexes were necessary after all when he remembered that Sammy hadn’t actually spoken to him about that for months. “Hey, hey,” Dean said as he gently rocked back and forth. Sam leaned over him, his huge hand on his son’s head. 

“He’s going to hurt me!” Cassie sobbed, burying his face into Dean’s shirt. Sam took his sobbing child and Dean extricated himself carefully from clinging hands and knees. 

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, buddy,” Sam assured him.

“Manny said he’d make my head explode!” Cassie squealed. In the bed in the corner, Bobby sat up, rubbing his eyes. 

“Dad?” he asked sleepily. 

“It’s alright Bob, go back to sleep,” Dean told him with a nod. Bobby frowned, but lay back down. Dean could see the light reflecting off his eyes, though. 

“He said that if I didn’t let him stay he’d make my head explode.” Cassie insisted.

“It was a bad dream, Cassie, don’t worry.” Sam attempted to soothe him, but Cassie wriggled free and fell to the floor with a thump. He scrambled to his feet and cowered in the corner, his face all screwed up and streaked with tears. 

“Hey, hey,” Dean cooed, but Cassie shrank away from him as he tried to approach. He hit out at Sam, eliciting a round of aggravated whispers from him as Cassie sobbed harder and harder. Eventually, Jimmy stepped between them. 

“You just tell him, no, Cassie. You tell him no and he can’t get you. I promise.” Jimmy told him with firm conviction. Cassie sniffled. “He can’t get you if you just tell him no.”

“Really?” Cassie asked, allowing Jimmy to take his hand. 

“Really.” Jimmy told him, and reached forward to wrap him in his arms. He rocked him gently until his sniffles and sobs faded into the hushed baby snores, and Sam pulled back the covers on his bed so Jimmy could slide him right into bed.

“You’re a natural,” Sam said with a grin. Jimmy smiled sadly, looking down at his now empty arms. 

“Well, you know. I’ve done all this before,” he reminded them with a shrug. Sam’s face fell. Dean’s insides churned. Jimmy was layers and layers of loss and longing and Dean had been so hung up about Castiel that he’d let himself forget that. He had had a life, a family. He’d been a father – not just a half-assed father like John had been to Dean and Sam, either – a real, hands-on, tuck-into-bed, don’t-be-afraid-of-the-dark father, and it had been taken away from him. 

Dean closed the door of Bobby’s room and Sam wandered back to bedroom to a soft, sleepy call from Lily. The hallway seemed smaller somehow without Sam in it, which was stupid because Sam was huge. Dean could almost feel the blast of Jimmy’s breath on his face, the smell of him completely saturated the space between them. He could nearly feel the slickness of his skin as he held him over the edge of the bath. Jimmy didn’t look at him. 

“You got something right there,” he said suddenly, and then he was staring right at Dean, right into him, his blue eyes wide. He didn’t hesitate. His fingers brushed against Dean’s cheek. They lingered on his jaw for a few seconds. Dean stared back at him. His fingers had set his skin on fire and it burned right through to his core. Jimmy smiled, and then he was gone. His door clicked shut. Dean blinked. His hand traced the place where Jimmy had touched him. 

"Friday..." he murmured.


	7. Pancakes for Breakfast

“Goddamn it that is the last time I’m buying eggs from that crappy grocery store,” Lily yelled, slamming the refrigerator door shut. Dean looked up from his scrambled eggs on toast, his mouth stuffed with it. “These cakes are rotten to the core.” She brandished the open Tupperware box with Cassie and Jimmy’s cakes from the day before inside. She was right – not only was the entire box filled with fluffy bread mould, but the cakes themselves had turned a revolting slime green.

“On a scale of one to ten how grossed out would you be if I spat this eggs onto my plate?” Dean asked her as she tossed the cakes, box and all, into the trash. She shrugged and blazed out of the kitchen. He eyed his breakfast with suspicion, but there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with it. Tasted fine too. He shrugged and swallowed, and carried on eating. He heard the front door slam as Lily rushed out to work. 

Five minutes later, Sam breezed in, Cassie slung under his arm and his toothbrush hanging out the side of his mouth. He was walking on the backs of his untied shoes. “Could you take him?” Sam snapped, handing the child over. Cassie was still groggy. He rubbed his eyes with his pyjama sleeve. 

“Jimmy not up?” Dean asked. Sam looked at him as though he was speaking a foreign language.

“What, he the baby sitter now?” Sam asked with irritation. Dean just shook his head. Sam wasn’t conscious enough in the mornings to have noticed that Jimmy was the one Cassie usually made a beeline for in the mornings. The kid had imprinted on him real bad. “Whatever, I need to get out of here five minutes ago so I can get off early. Jess is fine to sit with Cassie for twenty minutes; do not miss your plane if I’m late back.” Sam insisted. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Sure, Sammy. Make sure you untwist your panties before you get in the car,” Dean tutted. Sam glared at him, then he was gone too.

“Daddy wears panties?” Cassie asked sleepily.

“I don’t know, bud, I make a special effort not to find out stuff like that,” Dean sighed. “What you want to eat?”

“Pancakes!” Cassie squealed, brightening up a little.

“Alrighty,” Dean told him with a grin, and then set about making them. Bobby stumbled down mid batch, and he set aside a couple for Jess for when she got out of bed. Like both her parents, she wasn’t much of a morning person, and with adolescence imminent, she was getting snarkier and snarkier every time Dean tried to coax her out of her bedroom. They have a deal that she checks in with him three times a day, and he doesn't tell her parents that she spent the whole day on her laptop. If it was Dean, he’d have considered pancakes to be just that, but he thought he’d play it safe. 

Stuffed and waiting for the sugar rush from the maple syrup to kick in, Bobby and Cassie sprawled on the living room floor whilst Dean started to wash up. At eleven, he heard heavy footfalls on the stairs. “Mornin’, Jessie Winchester. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour,” Dean joked brightly before turning round. It wasn’t Jess, it was Jimmy.

“Second time in two days you’ve thought I was someone else,” Jimmy told him with a wink. “Man might start to feel a little self-conscious.” Dean smiled. Jimmy looked like hell. With a jolt, he realised there was a dark brown wisp of blood smeared into his cheek. Dean moved without telling his body to, an automatic response. He dabbed the blood with the tip of his finger, then noticed Jimmy was looking at him like he’d completely lost the plot. His brain reconfigured itself then, and he found that in those moments it had been overwhelmed by whatever the hell that was, he’d wound up with one hand clasped tightly around Jimmy’s upper arm, the other hovering a few inches above his face. Maybe he had lost it. 

“You. Uh. You got blood on your cheek,” Dean told him. Jimmy raised his eyebrows and Dean cleared his throat, hurrying back to the sink to resume washing the dishes. “You uh, you didn’t seem all that surprised by that.” Dean pointed out. He heard Jimmy sigh.

“Yeah, well,” was the only response Jimmy gave. Dean’s face felt like it was on fire. He stared determinedly at the bubbles. What the hell was wrong with him? 

“Where’s Manny’s cupcakes?” Cassie asked. The suddenness of his voice made Dean jump – he almost dropped a plate on his foot. Maybe he was losing his edge. He made a mental note to extend his morning jog to nine miles as soon as he and Jimmy got back from Rome.

“They’re in the fridge,” Jimmy told him. So he hadn’t left the room, then. They’d just been standing in silence for ten minutes. Dean couldn’t work out if the squirming feeling that thought put in his stomach was good or bad and he couldn’t think of good enough reasons for it to be either. Maybe there really had been something up with the eggs. “Oh – they’re gone!” Jimmy exclaimed. “He must’ve eaten them in the night in secret.” Jimmy told him.

“Nuh-uh. I told you; he doesn’t eat things. He just makes them go bad,” Cassie insisted. 

“We’ll bake some more, okay?” Jimmy assured him. Dean heard him run out of the room, and turned around. “Sam and Lily take them to work?” Jimmy asked, keeping his voice low so that the boys in the next room wouldn’t hear.

“There was something up with the eggs – we tossed ‘em,” Dean explained, shaking his head. Jimmy frowned.

“We went to the store and bought them fresh,” Jimmy reminded him. Dean shrugged.

“Well, they were rotten through,” Dean told him, and turned back to the dishes. A few seconds later, he heard the tell-tale crumpling and crackling of someone rummaging in the garbage. “Jimmy, what the hell!” Dean yelled, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him away. He’d found the cakes. “Ugh, look, see? Gross.” Dean grunted, snatching them and tossing them away.

“That’s not right,” Jimmy murmured. He winced and put his hand to his head. That weird out-of control-but-totally-in-control thing flared up like it was a lighter someone had sprayed an aerosol over, and he guided Jimmy firmly to the kitchen table, forcing him to sit down. 

“Have you hit your head? Your nose was bleeding – if that happened after you hit your head, you hit it pretty bad. I can drive you to the hospital. You didn’t get up on time. What happened?” the words poured out of him, beyond his control.

“I’m fine. I don’t have a concussion or anything,” Jimmy hissed, massaging his temples.

“Are you sure? Did you hit your head?” Dean pressed, running his hand across Jimmy’s skull, feeling for lumps or cracks or blood, but only finding silky hair that breathed blueberries all over his fingers. 

“Dean. I’m fine,” Jimmy insisted. Dean froze. He was loathe to extricate his hand. Shit. Later was going to be one awkward plane journey. Well, at least the anxiety and embarrassment had a shot at distracting him from the terror of being airborne. He forced himself to take a step back, putting Jimmy out of arms reach. “I didn’t sleep well,” he confessed. 

“Yeah, and since when does a bad night’s sleep give you a nose bleed?” Dean scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. Jimmy sighed exasperatedly.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Jimmy said smoothly.

“Talk about what? I wasn’t under the impression there was anything to get talked about,” Dean growled. Jimmy rolled his eyes, winced again, and put his head in his hands. Dean’s irritation dissolved. He shoved his hands into his armpits to prevent himself from touching him again. Jimmy groaned quietly. It made Dean’s skin prickle. 

“It’s nothing. I promise I’ll talk to you about this, but not now. Just trust me that I’m fine, alright?” Jimmy asked, not lifting his head. 

“Yeah, you look just chipper,” Dean grunted. He watched Jimmy sitting there for a while, the movement of the muscles on his back and he rubbed his head. He thought about the thick scars over his shoulder blades, hidden under his grey t-shirt. He looked very small. He needed someone to loop around him, hold him close against their chest and press their lips into his hair. To rock gently back and forth and listen to whatever the hell ‘this’ could be. But there were two kids watching Loony Tunes in the next room. Dean decided that this would not be the time to press Jimmy for answers. 

He went back to the dishes. After a few moments of only Bugs talking, Dean heard the chair legs scrape across the floor. “Thank you,” Jimmy told him. Dean heard him retreat back upstairs. The boiler whined; he must be running himself a bath. Dean made a mental note to go knock on the door in half an hour if he didn’t hear him get out of the bathroom.

“Mornin, uncle Dean,” Jess mumbled sleepily.

“Hey sleepy head, there’s pancakes under the grill keeping warm for you,” Dean told her with a grin. She yawned. Her red hair was all over the place.

“Do you have to go to Rome tomorrow?” she asked with a smile. “Mom and dad are shit at making pancakes.” 

“Young lady, don’t swear, you fucking hear me?” he scalded her with a grin. “Your mom’s not so bad, but I’ll agree with you about your dad. Man. It’s been nearly twelve years and I still hate saying that.” Dean replied with a shudder. Jess poured syrup over her pancake stack and started to eat them leaning against the side of the work surface, watching Dean put the dishes away.

“Is it weird that your little brother has kids and you don’t?” she asked him. Dean flinched away from the comment like he’d been slapped across the face, but disguised the movement by grabbing another mug of the draining board. 

“Sure is,” he choked out.

“How come you never had any?” Jess continued, oblivious to Dean’s discomfort. She continued to eat. He took a deep breath.

“If I had my own kids I wouldn’t be able to look after all of you,” Dean grumbled. 

“Mom said it’s because you think dad’s your son, not your brother, and you really should have worked the whole issue out years ago but-”

“Son of a- God. Oh. Jesus. Dammit, Jessie!” Dean barked. Jessie was unfazed and simply cut into her pancakes with the side of her fork. “Your mom’s really great and everything, but that’s a load of bull. Sorry, Jess. I don’t know why I didn’t have kids. I guess I never found the right girl.” He explained with a shrug.  
“But you found the right guy, right?” she asked, matter-of-factly. Dean stared at her, gawping.

“What?” he asked.

“You know. Castiel. It’s the reason Cassie’s called Cassie, and the reason you never say his full name,” Jessie said with a shrug as though it ought to have been obvious. Dean clung to the work surface for support. 

“What the hell kind of conversation is that for a mother to have with her daughter? I know, lets discuss your uncle’s love life. Not that it. I wasn’t in love with him,” Dean grumbled. 

“I heard mom and dad arguing about it after you brought Jimmy home,” Jess confessed.

“Right,” Dean grunted. 

“So you weren’t in love with Castiel then?” she asked, waving her fork. Dean winced at the sound of his name. 

“No,” he gasped. 

“And you didn’t share a profound bound with him?” she continued.

“Well, yeah. But that was different,” Dean stuttered. He felt like he’d been stabbed through the chest. The pain had always been there, fizzing and sparking in the background. He didn't think it still had the capacity to flare up like that. It hadn't even been this bad when he'd seen Jimmy at the airport, or when he'd heard his voice on the phone. Those things had all been safe. They hadn't asked him questions. They had allowed him to keep his mind off that aching gap and pretend like it had healed a little. 

“And you don’t have his coat still?” she continued. It didn't feel like it had even begun to scab over.

“Holy shit, Jess, I swear to god. You get more and more like Sammy every day and that is not a good thing!” he yelled, doubling over as if there actually was a slash through his abdomen. Jess was wide eyed. Maybe he'd shouted a little too loud.

“I was just-”

“I do not give a crap what ‘you were just’, alright? Leave it,” he growled, forcing himself not to get so loud again. 

“Now I get why nobody will talk about this,” she huffed, and stormed upstairs. Her bedroom door slammed shut loudly. 

“Dammit,” Dean groaned. He sank to the floor with his back against the kitchen cabinets. The boys were getting rowdy. He closed his eyes. They were running all around the room; he could hear the thud, thud, thud, of their feet across the floor boards. They were used to him shouting, mostly at inanimate objects, not their sister. They were desensitized. Dean was panting. He listened to them play their game, squealing and laughed. He listened to the tap drip, drip, dripped into the bowl of water in the sink. He didn’t think about Cas, and his eyes; Jimmy’s eyes. He didn’t think about Jimmy’s touch on his cheek, or the warmth of his body beneath his hands. Waiting for weeks after weeks for Cas to wake up for him. 

“Dear, dear Castiel… where ever you are. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I- I-”

“Uncle Dean, are you crying?” Cassie asked. Dean felt a little hand on his forehead. 

“No, buddy,” Dean assured him with a smile and pulled him into a hug.

“There’s all water on your face,” Cassie pointed out Dean laughed. Jimmy was stood at the bottom of the stairs, blood smear gone, looking a little better than he had before. 

“Hey, little man,” Jimmy called. Cassie whipped his head up. “Wanna bake replacement cupcakes?” Jimmy asked. He nodded, so Dean released him. “Go wash your hands,” Jimmy commanded. Cassie ran out of the room. "She's just a kid, Dean. She doesn't know what she's saying." JImmy said softly. Dean took a deep breath.

"I know. She doesn't understand. None of them do. Never will, thank god. Well, thank... you know. Him," Dean replied with a shrug. Jimmy sighed and ran a hand through his hair, before closing the space between them with a few short strides. Dean's heart was pounding so hard it hurt, but it still felt like there was a gaping open wound all the way through him. Every spasm of pain screaming the same name at him over and over. 

Jimmy extended a hand, and pulled Dean to his feet. There was that sparking, jumping feeling. It began to knit the wound through Dean closed. He smoothed his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone, and he smiled cautiously. “You got something right there.” Jimmy whispered. 

“Yeah,” Dean admitted. Jimmy wrapped his arms around him and pressed his face into his neck. Were, were those his lips against his collar bone?

“I want to talk to you,” Jimmy mumbled into him.

“When in Rome,” Dean said, pulling out of the embrace and turning to look out of the window.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that phrase is used colloquially, but yes. When in Rome,” Jimmy replied. 

“No, I uh. I got a couple of things I should probably say too. But. Yeah. In Rome,” Dean stammered. Jimmy didn’t say anything more.


	8. Icarus Rising

Dean slotted his rucksack into the overhead compartment. Jimmy stretched up to do the same, and as he did so Dean couldn’t help but smile at the narrow strip of softly undulating flesh across his hips that had become exposed. He ducked into his seat, tantalisingly close to that bare skin for just a few moments, then Jimmy sat heavily beside him. 

He clipped on his seat belt, and then it didn’t matter about his hips, or the smell of blueberries, or the way he smiled and talked and moved. Dean’s palms were slick with sweat. He fumbled with his own buckle, unable to adjust it so was long enough to reach around him. “Dammit!” he hissed, throwing it down. Jimmy raised an eyebrow. 

“Is there something wrong with it?” Jimmy asked coolly. Dean’s temper fizzed. 

“Yes there’s something wrong with it the damn thing won’t get any longer,” Dean spat. He clenched his fists. They trembled in his lap.

“You alright?” Jimmy pressed.

“I’m just about holding out, if you would shut up,” Dean growled. Jimmy’s face fell. He leaned forward, looked at Dean with those wide sapphire eyes. Dean took a deep breath in and held it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he said on the exhale. Jimmy’s lips twitched. Dean could feel sweat sticking his shirt to his skin.

“You’re afraid of flying?” Jimmy asked him softly. Dean glared, and Jimmy’s concerned expression split into a crooked grin. There was that twisty feeling again, underneath the very really horror Dean was experiencing. “Let me,” Jimmy insisted, his voice soft. Dean was about to ask what he was supposed to be letting him do, when Jimmy’s hands went for his crotch. Dean thought he should be unsettled by that, or at least a little confused. The knots in his stomach twisted around a little more, and that was all. There was a little click, and Dean’s belt was fastened. Jimmy sat back. 

“Oh,” Dean stammered. Jimmy raised an eyebrow at him. They sat quietly through the safety briefing. Dean worked on keeping his breathing even and watched Jimmy watching him through the corner of his eye. Once they were in the air, he reached into his pocket for his sleeping pills. Jimmy didn’t ask. The last time they’d flown together, Dean had been too busy making sure Jimmy didn’t throw up on himself in his still-half-sedated state to get preoccupied by his fears. Or at least, preoccupied by his fear of flying. He could think of a whole long list of fears that seeing Jimmy like that had sparked in his head, but he avoided doing so.

Jimmy smiled at him reassuringly as he knocked back the pills. Then, it was just a matter of minutes before he was out.

The plane jittered and rattled. Dean started awake. He was clutching a hand in his, and turned in shock to see who it belonged to. Jimmy was asleep, his lips parted just a little. He had headphones in and the way they were draped over his chest was just a bit too reminiscent of heart monitor wire for Dean’s liking. He released his grip on Jimmy’s hand and adjusted his sleeping position – he still felt groggy enough to pass out again, but as soon as he withdrew his fingers Jimmy’s eyes opened lazily. The sight made Dean smile.

“Hey,” Jimmy croaked. “Is everything alright? You need anything?” he asked, moving already to help in any way he could offer before Dean had offered any indication of upset besides letting go of his hand. Dean shook his head and put his hand back into Jimmy’s lap, and closed his eyes. Jimmy’s fingers wrapped back around hid, but somehow he felt as though he could feel arms around him, gripping him tight and raising him through the night, out of the plane and away to somewhere soft, with feathers against his cheek. Blue eyes watched him, soft hands held him close, and he felt safe.

The next time he woke up, they were exiting the aircraft. Rome was exactly the same. This time, of course, Jimmy was already beside him and wearing Dean’s own baggy clothes, rather than standing and looking impeccably well dressed in the pick-up area. That did mean they didn’t have a comfortable ride to Jimmy’s place in a convertible, either, which seemed a shame because unlike the first time Dean had come to Rome, it was hot enough for them to have had the top down. Luckily, Jimmy spoke Italian perfectly, so they had no issues getting a cab. Hearing Jimmy speak another language had surprised Dean a little, though he wasn’t sure why. He guessed he’d lived here for a while.

When they got to his place, Jimmy looked up at it for a long time before taking the key out of his pocket. 

“We could have got a hotel, you know,” Dean pointed out. Jimmy sighed and unlocked the door. The house was flooded with light. It was every bit as massive and expensive as Dean had remembered it. The mess from the dining room had gone, and Dean wondered if they’d cleaned the mess from the upstairs bedroom too. They probably had. Jimmy stepped slowly through the space, reaching out his hand to trail over the backs of the chairs and along the work surface in the kitchen. Dean watched his shoulders raise and fall with big, slow breaths. 

He walked towards the curved staircase as if in slow motion. Dean said nothing. The front door was still wide open behind him, but Jimmy was already on the stairs and Dean was sure as hell not letting him up there alone. He followed ten or so paces behind, so Jimmy could let his hand slide slowly up the bannister, and pause to let his fingers trace the outline of the door handle on the very top floor. He opened it, let it fall wide. It was just the way Dean had opened it when he’d gone up to find him in the bath that day, except rather than keep his back to the wall like a policeman entering a crime scene, Jimmy walked smoothly to the centre of the room. 

It was so quiet that Dean heard the breath catch in Jimmy’s throat. Dust danced in the air around them. The bed was perfectly made, the blanket gone from the window seat. Jimmy wandered very slowly towards the bath, past the long piano. His fingers drew lines in the dust. He didn’t stop at the tub, just went right over to the wall. He touched it with both his hands and the surface popped out under his fingers, sliding smoothly to the right. There were rows of dark shirts hanging behind it over neatly folded trousers that were piled precisely into stacks above flawlessly polished shoes. 

Jimmy’s fingers clutched at the clothes. He tore one down from its hanger and clutched it to him. He swayed back and forth, back and forth. Dean could only stand and watch as he stepped closer to the hanging clothes. “I was going to throw them out,” Jimmy whispered. 

“You don’t have to,” Dean assured him. Jimmy sighed and threw the shirt down across the trousers. He paced quickly to the piano and sat on the stool. He stared at the clothes. 

“I can’t keep all of that,” Jimmy shook his head. Dean frowned. Right, he needed to offer Jimmy something constructive now. How often did it happen that he needed to say something important and actually had the relevant experience? Don’t make an ass of yourself, he told himself firmly. He looked long and hard at Jimmy for a few moments before clearing his throat.

“Was there, uh, anything special he had. Like, you know, a coat- a shirt he always wore. Something like that?” Dean asked, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry I’m shit at this kind of stuff,” he babbled awkwardly.

“No, you’re not. Thank you,” Jimmy sighed. They are both quiet for a long time. Dean watches the dust dance around Jimmy’s shoulders and listens to the distant sounds of voices and bird calls, so far away he has to strain against the quiet to pick them out at all. Jimmy looks exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with their ten and a half hour journey, like he’s had enough of the world and everything in it. Dean supposed that hopelessness wouldn’t be a hard thing for anyone to spot in Jimmy, though; he’d made his feelings pretty clear the last time Dean had been in this room with him. 

Jimmy turned abruptly like someone had called his name, and a second later his hand was on the side of his head over the same place it had been that morning, hours and hours ago at the kitchen table. All that winding concern knotted itself up again in Dean's stomach, and he was unable to stop himself from stepping towards Jimmy’s now-hunched form. 

“Jimmy?” he asked, crouched in front of him.

“I’m alright,” he snapped, wincing and pressing his eyes shut together. Dean’s lips were a hard, thin line; he was not convinced. A little red bauble of blood grew and split in Jimmy’s left nostril, a streak of red joining his nose to his lips. He gasped. The blood ran into the corner of his mouth. Dean grabbed his chin and tilted his head towards the ceiling; he moved so quickly that Jimmy had no opportunity to put up any resistance.

“Yeah, you seem just fine,” Dean growled, running a hand roughly through Jimmy’s hair. “You stay right there, I’ll get a towel,” he instructed, striding back towards the bath. He tried not to see Jimmy sprawled in it again, but his mind was his greatest enemy, always had been, due it’s nasty habit of throwing painfully memories in his direction at the least convenient moments. 

“It’s fine now. It’s stopped. It only lasts for a few moments. I’m alright,” Jimmy pleaded, getting to his feet. Dean turned back to him, glaring. The red made his eyes seem an even brighter shade of blue. It made Dean’s stomach hurt.

“This has happened before? Not just this morning, other times too?” Dean asked, appalled. Jimmy didn’t respond. “Fuck,” Dean hissed. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean growled.

“I said I’d talk when-”

“Yeah, when we were in Rome. Well here we are, right?” Dean snapped, shrugging emphatically. Jimmy said nothing. Dean laughed humourlessly and shook his head. “Christ. What the hell is going on?” 

“Just give me a minute, alright?” Jimmy growled, rubbing angrily at his upper lip with the back of his hand. Dean waited. “Sorry, it’s. It’s a little difficult, this is all just a bit. Difficult,” Jimmy groaned. Dean took an involuntary step towards him and swore under his breath. “I can’t think of a worse… no. Look. Marcus was-” Jimmy took a sharp intake of breath that actually made Dean’s knees tremble for a second like they were about to give out. They didn’t, thankfully. “When he started to get sick he was having these headaches and he kept, he kept having nosebleeds and… god. This is stupid, it’s probably nothing,” Jimmy muttered angrily. 

“It’s not that. You’re fine. There’s no way in hell that the both have you were sick. You can’t catch brain tumours,” Dean knew he sounded angrier than he had the right to be but couldn’t be bothered holding back. Jimmy sniffed, smeared the blood around a little more.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Jimmy mumbled. Dean found himself back in front of him, crouching, and his hands finding Jimmy’s and holding on. Jimmy smiled shyly, and Dean felt like a complete tool squatting on the floor like that, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He waited. Jimmy took a deep breath. “When, when. When C-c-”

“It’s alright you don’t have to say it,” Dean assured him softly. Jimmy closed his eyes, took another deep breath. Dean closed his eyes too, but the insides of his eyelids burned with Cas; Cas in purgatory, Cas in his arms, Cas in the barn the first time he’d laid eyes on him, Cas collapsed in a chair, Cas broken on the ground. 

“When he first was… gone, this used to happen a lot,” Jimmy explained. It was obvious he was referring to the blood and the pain in his head he’d so obviously been feeling. “So, when Marcus first got ill I… relapsed a little.” Jimmy took his hand from Dean’s so he could rest it against his cheek. It stayed there for a few moments, then fell limply between his knees. Dean caught it up again and clutched it tightly. “You have to understand. After I left you, for a long time I… I was a mess,” Jimmy explained with a smile. 

“Me too,” Dean assured him. Jimmy smiled wider, that smile Dean loved. 

“Yeah,” Jimmy agreed, and the smile vanished. Dean clutched his fingers tighter. “It was like his memories needed somewhere to go, so they were forcing themselves into my own memories, and. Well. It burned. It felt like I was being sliced up inside over and over, and it was never going to end,” Jimmy confessed. Dean knew all too well what that felt like, and guessed from the sympathy in Jimmy’s eyes that he knew Dean understood too. “I tried… I…” Jimmy seemed unable to speak again. 

“I know, buddy,” Dean promised him. Jimmy keeled forwards. “Hey, hey. It’s alright,” Dean soothed. 

“I don’t know,” Jimmy whispered. Dean fell silent. “I was a mess. And then I met Marcus and he was so angry and it, it helped to be around someone who was so determined and impassioned, you know?” Jimmy shrugged. “He was so headstrong, so certain that he needed to drag me up onto my feet again and get me going. It was intoxicating.

“When he started to get sick, I… I became convinced he had been lying to me the whole time; that he’d been keeping secrets from me that he didn’t want to share. If I’d just… if I hadn’t been such an idiot, maybe he’d have got treatment sooner, and he’d still be here…” Jimmy groaned.

“Stop that. It’s not your fault. Don’t you dare try to make that your fault,” Dean growled at him. Jimmy looked at him. He wasn’t convinced by Dean’s words at all, that much was obvious.

“I didn’t speak to him for weeks. I shut myself in that room with all those paintings, started driving myself mad, until one morning I woke up and he was sitting in the room, on the chair in front of my easel,” Jimmy sighed, his chest shuddering. “He was looking at the paintings on the ceiling, the- the scratched I’d made where I was… I was trying to tear out Castiel’s wings and. He didn’t even look at me,” Jimmy gasped. “He just. He just said ‘we need to talk’ and I… I thought he was going to break up with me so I yelled and-” Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut, tears rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto his and Dean’s entwined hands. 

Dean said nothing, but he let go of Jimmy’s fingers and let his hands creep around him, over his shoulders, smoothing over his shoulder blades. He gently pulled him from the seat, rocking out of his crouch so he could curl Jimmy’s shaking form into his lap and hold him against his chest. “Now I keep having these dreams and my head is killing me and there are big chunks of time missing and Dean. Dean what’s wrong with me?” he sobbed quietly. 

“You’re alright,” Dean hushed. He pressed his lips into Jimmy’s hair. 

“I’m not alright,” Jimmy whined. Dean growled, the sound coming from deep in his chest. Jimmy looked up at him from his nest in the ring of Dean’s arms, looking puzzled. His eyes – Cas’ eyes – and his lips – Cas’ lips – were open and right there, and that blueberry smell was overwhelming. He wasn’t Cas. He was Jimmy. They were Jimmy’s eyes. Jimmy’s lips. Jimmy’s fucking lips. Dean moved again without thinking, and he was kissing him. Kissing Jimmy. And Jimmy was kissing him back. That soft heat in his mouth was Jimmy’s tongue. That taste was Jimmy’s taste. He was Jimmy, and fuck, he kissed like he was a gift from the gods. 

“You’re alright,” Dean said into his lips. Jimmy broke off kissing him. Dean pressed his mouth to Jimmy’s neck, breathing deep the scent of him, his hands under his shirt, tracing things into his skin he needed him to know, but that he had no words to say with. 

“Dean!” Jimmy gasped, and shoved him back. He looked confused and hurt. The heat that had just stirred in Dean’s chest sank and he felt sick, horribly awfully sick. He fell away from him and scrambled to his feet. He licked his lips, the taste of Jimmy’s mouth still clinging to them. 

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” Dean moaned. 

“No, I didn’t mean. For god’s sake I…” Jimmy spluttered. Dean turned away from him. He felt incredibly humiliated, and even more guilty. Jimmy had been pouring out his heart. He’d needed comfort and not… whatever the hell that had been. 

He stormed down the stairs and into the kitchen. He fought the almost overwhelming urge to smash everything, and ended up yanking open the door to the pool and storming outside. He punched the wall, which was a terrible idea. It was made of stone that had been thinly coated with fragile terracotta. His knuckles were bleeding, and he’d cracked the render so bad that little chunks of it fell to the ground at his feet. 

“Dean,” Jimmy called from behind him. Dean turned. He was in the doorway. His hair was a mess, still a little too long in a way that was painfully perfect. Dean’s heart jolted as he realised that it had been his own fingers that had made his hair that way, all jostled and wonderful. No. He mustn’t. He looked at the floor, at the tiny pieces of wall he’d put there. He messed things up. Everything. Maybe it was cute when it was just Jimmy’s hair but he’d messed up everything. Sam was right. He couldn’t take care of himself. He needed to get out of Jimmy’s life before-

Jimmy’s hand was on his cheek. He lifted Dean’s face until he was forced to make eye contact. Jimmy wasn’t crying anymore. There was still a wisp of blood under his nose, but it didn’t matter because he was smiling like he knew, like he understood everything in the universe, everything about Dean. “You got something right there,” he whispered, and before Dean could ask what he meant, Jimmy was kissing him again. Dean stood there and let him, let Jimmy’s hands trace his face, his neck, and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Jimmy tugged his own t-shirt over his head. His hands smoothed over Dean’s tattoo, over the lines of his chest, over the little scars from nicks and cuts he’d obtained whilst hunting, over the impression of Cas’ hand barely pressed now into his shoulder. 

Dean kissed him back, down his neck, across the scars on his chest. Jimmy shuddered but Dean didn’t stop, his hands slipping under Jimmy’s waistband, smoothing over his ass to grip the tops of his thighs tight with his fingers. Jimmy jumped, and they were falling, sailing, flying backwards through the air until they met the surface of the water. They pulled apart. Dean gasped as his head breached the surface of the pool. Jimmy was laughing. Dean struggled to tread water.

“Shit! How deep is this pool!” Dean yelled, swimming to the side to grip the edge. Jimmy was still laughing.

“Ten foot, there abouts,” he told him. Dean hauled himself up so it was only his calves still in the water. He was preparing himself to get pissed off about his sopping wet pants when he noticed Jimmy had vanished. 

“Holy shit,” Dean gasped, then Jimmy’s head popped up right between his knees. He had one hand on each of Dean’s thighs. “Oh my god!” Dean yelled at him. Jimmy laughed again. His hair was all stuck down to his forehead, hanging so long that it covered his eyes. Dean couldn’t have that. He swept it back. Jimmy smiled up at him fondly. 

“Just Jimmy will do, but if you insist on calling me god, I’m not going to argue,” Jimmy said with a wink. Dean chuckled, and leaned down to kiss that smug grin right off Jimmy’s face. It back fired a little, Jimmy exploited the movement to wrap his arms back around Dean and therefore pull him right back into the pool again. They swam to the other side of the pool, where both of them could stand comfortably with their heads out of the water. Jimmy rested his head against Dean’s shoulder and they swayed side to side, almost dancing through the water, until the sky was black but for a sprinkling of stars, and the pool was glowing with pale light cast from the lights in its floor. 

“Jimmy?” Dean asked. It must have been hours since either of them had spoken, or done anything besides hold the other.

“Hmm?” Jimmy replied sleepily. The water splashed as they pulled a little way from each other.

“I’m sorry I punched you in the face,” Dean told him. Jimmy smiled and pressed his lips briefly against Dean’s cheek, then he extricated himself from Dean’s arms and heaved himself out of the water. Dean watched him walk, dripping, back to the house, smiling at how great his ass looked with his pants clinging to it. 

“Would you like something to drink?” Jimmy called back to him. 

“Sure,” Dean replied. He watched Jimmy open the fridge, close it again, walk to a cupboard and open it, then close that again too. 

“Ah,” Jimmy said, “I’m afraid I’ve only got wine.” Dean grinned.

“Nice,” Dean chuckled. Jimmy pulled a bottle from the rack, examined it, then grabbed them a glass each. Dean watched him shove the cork screw into the top of the bottle and found himself biting his lip, his head pounding in his chest. He shook himself. Opening wine was not erotic. Unless Jimmy was the one doing it, my god. Dean pulled himself out of the water too. He was striding quacking to the kitchen, his eyes locked on the tensed muscles in Jimmy’s upper arms.

Jimmy froze. His muscles went lax. The bottle of wine shattered on the floor.

“Jimmy?” Dean squeaked, perplexed. Jimmy was gasping. 

“I’m alright,” he panted, putting his arm up to halt Dean’s advance. “I’m – oh fuck,” he groaned, falling to his knees. “Castiel!” he screamed, clutching at his head. Dean could have sworn the blood in his veins stopped moving when he said that. The lights in the kitchen flickered. Dean staggered backwards until he was at the door, where the frame tripped him up and left him sprawled on the patio. “Castiel!” Jimmy shrieked again.


	9. On Thin Ice

For the third time in his life, Dean found himself sat with his head between his knees in a hospital corridor, with Jimmy on the other side of the wall behind him, waiting. He’d been trying not to fixate on the clock hung on the wall directly opposite him, but it was difficult. He’d tried switching seats so he didn’t have to watch how agonizingly slow the second hand was moving, but when he did, there was the door for him to stare at, and it didn’t open. He concluded that the door was making him sweat more than the clock, so he switched back.

There was a bang and he looked up, but it wasn’t made by the right door. A nurse smiled at him as she backed out of a room wheeling metal trolley that glinted when the light hit it and made Dean feel sick. He kept imagining the lights were flickering again, that Jimmy would start up screaming at any moment. But the corridor stayed quiet, and empty. His phone buzzed in his pocket. The caller ID was Sam.

“Hey, Dean. I didn’t wake you up did I?” Sam asked. His voice was thick with concern, as though he already knew something was wrong. Dean hadn’t been capable of speech for several hours, and hell knows Jimmy’s not in any state to speak to anyone either. 

Dean managed to mumble something that was a rough approximation of the word “no”, but whatever had ruffled Sam up was enough for him not to notice Dean’s inability to form a monosyllabic word, or at least not bother to comment on it. Dean didn’t care. He didn’t have the emotional capacity to be irritated. He barely had any space left in his mind to be concerned that something was worrying Sam that clearly wasn’t Jimmy collapsing and have some weird seizure with the lights flashing on and off until the bulbs goddamn burst and made the whole house look light up like the fourth of July for twenty seconds before plunging them into complete darkness. 

“You haven’t noticed anything weird in the garden lately, have you?” Sam’s voice was still strained. Dean could hear Cassie babbling away to Lily in the background. It was, what, eight in the morning on a Sunday. The hell had bothered Sammy enough to phone him?

“Nope,” Dean groaned. Sam sighed gruffly. “What is it?” Dean snapped impatiently. 

“Someone’s drawn a pentagram into the lawn,” Sam hissed angrily. “You think someone knows what we used to be?”

“How the hell would anyone know that, Sammy?” Dean groaned, massaging his temples.

“I don’t know. Why else would anyone draw something like that in our lawn? Seems like a pretty hefty coincidence,” Sam scoffed. Dean sighed. He didn’t have time for this. “Hey, you don’t think someone was trying to summon something do you?” Sam pondered. “Dean?” he asked when Dean didn’t respond. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with it, Sammy. I’m spread a little thin right now, okay? You think you can deal with this on your own? I got a lot on my plate,” Dean grumbled. Sam was silent for a moment. Dean could picture exactly the way he’d be looking at him now, that irritating, studious expression he wore when he was trying to go all shrink on him. 

“Is everything alright?” Sam asked. The door finally opened, a doctor in scrubs slipping out of the room. She smiled at Dean sympathetically. 

“You can see him now,” she told him softly.

“Who’s that?” Sam’s voice had hitched up an octave. “Where are you?” he squeaked.

“The hospital,” Dean growled. 

“Shit!” Sam exclaimed. He heard Lily chastise him in the background. “Oh god he didn’t try to… again did he?” he continued in a hushed tone.

“No. It wasn’t that,” Dean replied.

“You aren’t hurt are you?”

“No! Dammit, Sammy. I’m fine,” Dean sighed exasperatedly. “I need to get off the phone,” he growled. 

“What’s happened to Jimmy?” Sam demanded.

“I don’t know,” Dean replied, and then he hung up. 

There were monitors and a slim, clear tube that looped around his ears and into his nose, but he was sat up, propped against his pillows, and he watched Dean standing at the end of his bed with his wide blue eyes. The right side of his lips curved into a smile. He was calm, and it made Dean want to scream at him. “Hey,” Jimmy croaked. The hoarseness of his voice sent ripples of discomfort all through Dean’s body. 

“Hey,” Dean whispered back.

“It’s alright,” Jimmy promised him. Dean ducked his head; he was supposed to be the one offering Jimmy comfort, not the other way round. It wasn’t Dean in the hospital bed with wires stuck to his chest. “Come here,” Jimmy asked him. Dean glanced at him apologetically and edged around the bed to sit in the chair beside him. “I’m alright,” Jimmy breathed. He extended his hand towards Dean, who tried to avoid staring at the IV line in the crook of his arm. “Dean, look at me,” Jimmy insisted. Dean obeyed, cautiously raising his gaze to meet Jimmy’s. He was still smiling softly. “I’m alright.”

Dean felt his bottom lip quiver. “Shh,” Jimmy soothed, smoothing his thumb over the back of Dean’s hand. Dean shook, a desperate sound ripping out of his chest. “It’s okay,” Jimmy hushed, and Dean leaned up onto the bed, gently wrapped his arms around Jimmy’s shoulders. He felt Jimmy’s right hand reach and his fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, but his left remained motionless on the bed beside him. 

“Fucking hell, Jimmy, fucking hell,” Dean groaned, roughly pressing his lips first against Jimmy’s own, then to his forehead, then each of his cheeks and the hollow at the base of his neck. 

“Dean- Dean stop,” Jimmy said smoothly. Dean pulled back, confused. Jimmy was still half-smiling serenely. He was too calm, definitely too calm. “Please,” he added, his eyes closing for a moment. Without the bright blue to light up his face, he looked even more broken. Dean collapsed back into the chair and covered his mouth, surprised to find his stubble slick with moisture. He wasn’t crying. Absolutely not.

“There was nothing wrong with my MRI,” Jimmy told him quietly. It took a long time for that to sink in.

“But, but your face, your arm. Your heart stopped beating,” Dean felt as though his lungs weren’t opening enough for him to breathe, or there was someone on his chest stopping it from expanding. His head was spinning. Jimmy looked infuriatingly calm.

“It’s fine. It’s getting better every minute,” Jimmy assured him. He lifted his left arm by the shoulder, nudging it an inch across the sheets. “See?” he asked, but Dean couldn’t see how that was much of an improvement. Dean took a deep breath.

“Right before you, you know. Collapsed. You said. You said,” Dean struggled to get the lungs out of his somehow restricted body.

“Castiel,” Jimmy finished for him. “It was Castiel.”

Dean stared at him for a long time. Jimmy appeared to think that this would be as much of an explanation as Dean would need. Dean’s mouth was dry and he felt like the inside of his body was boiling and he was going to splatter the room with his innards at any moment. Jimmy continued to smile lopsidedly at him.

“I’m trying really hard to keep it together,” Dean admitted. Jimmy nodded and looked away. Too calm.

“I feel like jumping off something very high up,” Jimmy replied and winced. The bleeping of his heart monitor sped up and his head rushed to the side of his head, but after a few seconds, the bleeps slowed, and Jimmy took a long, shuddering breath. “I wanted to show you Rome, show you the coliseum, the galleries,” he said wistfully.

“We can do that,” Dean whispered. 

“No,” Jimmy said firmly. “I just want to go home.” 

“Stop talking like that,” Dean snapped. Jimmy glared at him for a second before smoothing his face back into serenity. Dean’s eye twitched.

“Like what?” Jimmy asked emotionlessly. Dean counted to ten in his head so he wouldn’t wind up punching him right in the face again.

“Like you’re dying or something,” Dean hissed. 

“Dean-” Jimmy started, but Dean shut him up by kissing him, desperately.

“Shut up, alright?” Dean grumbled.

“Okay,” Jimmy agreed, and he allowed Dean to kiss him some more.

“You’re alright,” Dean insisted. Jimmy closed his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“You’re alright,” Dean said again. Jimmy watched his face for a few moments. 

“Okay,” Jimmy allowed. Dean closed his eyes. 

“Was that so hard?” Dean asked him. Jimmy didn’t reply. 

By the morning, Jimmy could move his arm and the side of his face again, although he struggled to do up the button on his jeans as he dressed to go home. Dean did it for him, gently placing a kiss against his hip as he did so. Jimmy had sighed, but pushed him away. They’d wanted to keep him at the hospital for observation, but both Jimmy and Dean knew there wasn’t going to be anything physically wrong with him. Jimmy was convinced it was Cas that had crippled him temporarily, and as uncomfortable as that made Dean feel, Jimmy’s unwavering certainty was hard to resist. He had to know a thing or two about what Cas trying to get into his head was like, right? Dean was in no place to argue.

The first day, Dean had almost been happy to comply with Jimmy’s wishes, to take him back to his expensive house and half-carry him up the stairs to tuck him into bed. He’d slept on the chaise lounge himself, unable to keep his eyes shut for more than half an hour at a time. It was warm in the daylight cast through the window that the chaise lounge faced, and combined with the lack of sleep from the plane and the hospital, Dean should have been dead to the world, but Jimmy was saying things under his breath. 

He’d dragged him out of the house at nine on the Monday morning, insisting Jimmy needed to get out of the house. He hadn’t been thrilled, but he hadn’t been particularly resistant to Dean helping him get dressed and shoving him out of the door, either, and Dean took that as a good sign. Now they were sat in some quiet little café, drinking coffee in silence and waiting for someone to bring Dean his pancakes. Jimmy had declined to get anything for breakfast. He said he wasn’t hungry. 

“So where are we going to go?” Dean asked him. Jimmy peered over the ridiculously large mug he was drinking out of; it almost covered his entire face. He looked confused. Dean smiled. “Coliseum? A gallery? I don’t know this place, man. You’re the one who’s supposed to be showing me around,” Dean encouraged. Jimmy lowered his mug slowly, carefully placed it on it’s saucer and wiped a napkin over his goddamn perfect lips before he looked like he was thinking about answering.

“Dean…” he began. 

“Indulge me,” Dean insisted. Jimmy smiled. “You lived here a while, right? There must be some place that you like best.” Dean grinned. Jimmy smiled a little wider and straightened up in his chair. There was a little bit of that soft, warm Jimmy that Dean had come to know, with a soft flush over his cheeks that made the breath catch in his throat. He couldn’t stand it if Jimmy returned to the state he’d been in when he’d first moved in with him and Sam, distant and cold. He shuddered as he involuntarily compared that to the way Cas had been for the first months he’d know him. The thought made Dean feel sick. He didn’t want them to be tangled up in each other. 

“Well, there is this one place…” Jimmy began shyly. He brushed his hair back off his face and it made Dean want him in ways that were new but at the same time not new at all. Dean smiled and hid it behind his coffee. “A palace, actually. It’s a bit of a hidden treasure,” Jimmy shrugged. 

“A little like you were, then,” Dean said without thinking. He held his breath, but Jimmy blushed and looked into his coffee, picking up his teaspoon to stir it even though it was black with no sugar and therefore had nothing in it to be mixed and he’d drunk half of it already besides that.

“Palazzo Altemps,” Jimmy continued, still stirring and smiling but no acknowledging Dean’s interruption in any way besides that. Dean grinned. “It’s called that, rather than something Italian, because an Austrian lord bought it in the sixteen hundreds. Its filled with some fascinating and beautiful works,” he explained. 

“Sounds great, is it close enough that you can manage the walk from here, or shall we get a cab?” Dean asked him. Jimmy blushed again. 

They get a cab, and Jimmy instructs the driver in his smooth, perfect, hard-on-inducing Italian before settling next to Dean in the back seat. They arrive at the palace, which is spectacular, and Jimmy leads Dean by the hand, showing him his favourite pieces with enthusiastic waves of his hands and excited whispers. Dean doesn’t say much, he just watches Jimmy. After just an hour, Jimmy’s face grows pale, and Dean suggests they go find somewhere to sit down. Jimmy is embarrassed and bats away Dean’s attempts at comfort, angling himself away from him on the bench they found out in the spectacular courtyard.

“It’s ridiculous to get like this you know. You’re barely out of the hospital, you're doing great,” Dean assured him, but Jimmy sighs. When he looks over his shoulder at Dean, he looks conflicted. 

“This just wasn’t how I pictured this, alright?” Jimmy admitted sadly. Dean frowned.

“Pictured what?”

“You know,” Jimmy said. Dean raised an eyebrow. Jimmy rolled his eyes. “This. Me and you. Our first date,” he said, with a laugh. Dean felt his face go all hot and knew immediately he’s turned beetroot red. “This… this is a date, right?” Jimmy asked nervously. Dean sighed and pulled Jimmy’s hand from where he’d jammed it between his knees.

“Yeah, it’s a date,” Dean mumbled. Jimmy beamed. Dammit. Dean was all knotted up inside again. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Sam was calling him again. “Shit,” he groaned. 

“Is something wrong?” Jimmy asked.

“It’s Sammy – he phoned the other night and I… I was too distracted to call him back,” Dean sighed. Jimmy looked up at the sky. Dean answered the phone. “Alright? Any news on the pentagram?” he asked, cutting off Sam from whatever he’d rehearsed to shout at Dean before he called him.

“Uh…” Sam said, processing what Dean had said and the easy tone of his voice. He must have been expecting some crazy shit to have happened.

“Pentagram?” Jimmy asked with a frown. Dean shook his head, hoping Jimmy would understand that meant he would explain later. Whether he understood or not, he didn’t look like he was waiting for a reply.

“Nothing on the pentagram. What’s been going on, Dean? I call you and you say you’re at the hospital, don’t explain why, and don’t call me back for days? What the hell?” Sam complained.

“I know, I know, I’ve been a little distracted,” Dean mumbled as an apology.

“No kidding,” Sam said bitterly. “You going to explain or not?” 

“Not right now,” Dean answered, his eyes assessing Jimmy from head to toe. He looked even better in his own clothes that actually fit him than he did in the too big ones he’d been borrowing from Dean and Sam. As he looked up at the cloudless sky, his lips were parted slightly in a way that cried out to be kissed and made Dean regret every moment longer that he wasn’t doing so. “We’ll be home in a couple of days, don’t sweat it.”

“Dean? Wh-” Sam was obviously about to launch into a lecture, but Dean hung up before he could get going. His phone immediately buzzed again, so he switched it off, and got right to kissing those lips that so needed to be kissed, and winding his hair right into Jimmy’s hair, which was long enough to tug at and made Dean’s mind go crazy with ideas as to how he could exploit that.

“You ready to go back inside?” he asked Jimmy when he could bear to pull away. Jimmy was a little breathless, but this time it was for reasons that were exciting rather than worrying. Jimmy grinned.

“Sure,” he replied. They spent the rest of the morning in the palace, with Dean’s hand shoved into Jimmy’s back pocket, and found another little café to go to eat some lunch. This time, Dean managed to convince Jimmy to actually eat something, which spread a warm feeling of relief right through his body. Until then, he’d almost forgotten the nagging worry, the pain in his chest that told him that the smiles were fragile, and the happy little bubble they’d made was liable to pop at any moment.

The afternoon was spent wandering around a museum. Jimmy was quieter there, and clutched Dean’s hand the way Dean was clutching his, and that was a little bit frightening, but not enough that they couldn’t ignore. As the day wore on, it felt more and more like they were walking across a frozen lake and the further they went, the thinner the ice got. At around four, Jimmy doubled over and had to run to the men’s room. Dean hovered anxiously outside, listening to him throwing up and to the horrible moans in between.   
They went home after that. 

In the cab Jimmy insisted he wanted to cook, but they sat down on the couch near the front door and after all of five minutes Jimmy was out of it. Dean didn’t want to wake him. He decided that he would be the one to cook instead, and was relieved to discover that Jimmy must have had someone stock the cupboards ready for them before they arrived. He had the stuff he needed to throw together mac and cheese, though he grumbled as he knew it was hardly a gourmet meal and hoped that Jimmy wouldn’t be disappointed.

“DEAN!” Jimmy yelled as Dean was spooning the pasta into a baking dish. He nearly dropped the saucepan he’d been holding. He rushed over. Jimmy’s face was covered in bruises, his lip swollen; he looked like he’d been beaten to a pulp. He screamed, splattering Dean’s face with blood.

“Jimmy!” Dean yelled at him. Jimmy’s eyes grew as wide as they could, but they were almost swollen shut, then Dean blinked, and they were fine, and Jimmy’s face was just covered in blood, there were no bruises. Dean jumped back from him.

“Dean?” Jimmy asked. Dean was panting. “What’s wrong?” he asked, utterly perplexed. He touched a hand to his face, and saw it was bloody. “Shit,” he mumbled, getting to his feet. Dean shook his head and ran to the kitchen to grab the towel that hung against the oven. It was warm. He pressed it against Jimmy’s face. “Why are you so freaked out?” Jimmy pleaded. He sounded scared.

“No- nothing,” Dean stammered, and clutched Jimmy to his chest. What the hell was that? What the fuck. What. He had to calm down, and carry on with what he was doing. He needed to breathe, yes, that was what he needed to do. In, out. There. Calm. 

“Oh, Dean. I’m so sorry I fell asleep. I… you didn’t have to cook,” Jimmy sighed. He clearly had no idea what had just happened. Dean had to calm the fuck down. 

“I wanted to,” he told him honestly. Jimmy smiled shyly. “Ugh, I must have bitten my lip in my sleep too,” he groaned, spitting red onto the towel. Dean tried not to grimace. “So, chef, what we eating?” Jimmy asked him brightly.

“Uh, uh. Mac and cheese,” Dean mumbled. Jimmy smiled.

“Sounds great,” he said. Dean blushed.

“Yeah right.”


	10. Bones

The sun was low above the trees that surrounded their home. Jimmy was manning the barbeque, with Bobby stood on one of the kitchen chairs beside him, anxiously worrying at the sausages with a prong that Dean wasn’t sure he trusted him with. Cassie was tearing around, through piles of fresh cut grass that Dean had spent the afternoon raking. He didn’t mind. As he’d raked he’d found marks still in the ground just into the treeline, the ghost of the mysterious pentagram. Sam had botched it up, drawing lines through it, but it was intact enough that it was recognisable.

Dean swigged his beer. He hadn’t drunk in the house for years, not since before Lily had got pregnant with Jess. She and Sam had given him an ultimatum; stop passing out and puking in the bath, or move out. Dean knew even then that he couldn’t have made it on his own.

“Cassie, don’t go in there,” Dean warned as he strayed a little closer to the dilapidated stables at the back of the garden. Cassie stuck out his bottom lip, but skipped over to the other side of the garden. Dean’s eyes trailed back over to Jimmy. He remembered then that he’d meant to ask him if he wanted to help fix up the garden. He didn’t look up for that. He had dark shadows under his eyes and all the shimmer from his sky blue irises had faded. In the nights, he’d trash and sweat in Dean’s bed. Dean would hold him, press his lips to his neck, but it didn’t seem to help.

There had been more Moments since they’d got back from Rome two weeks ago. This morning, Jimmy had cried out from inside the backroom, and when he’d emerged his scarred chest was all splattered with blood and his eyes were wide. Dean said nothing. What was there to say? They could only speculate and Dean didn’t want to hear what he already knew Jimmy’s theory would be. He’d say it was Castiel. Dean didn’t want it to be. The Moments were frightening, and in them Jimmy was afraid, delirious. If that was Cas, then something was very, very wrong with him.

“What’s this?” Sam’s voice announced his arrival. He frowned when he saw Dean’s beer, and Dean ducked his head.

“Jimmy made burgers and I helped!” Bobby called proudly from Jimmy’s side.

“Actually, Bobby did most of it all by himself. I just supervised,” Jimmy correct with a fond smile. Sam grinned. He settled down, sitting in the wooden chair opposite Dean’s. They’d already started eating by the time Lily breezed in. She threw her car keys down onto the table. Jess trailed after her sheepishly.

“Alright?” Sam asked.

“Honest to god, the Robertson’s just cornered me in Walgreens. Their dog’s dead,” she huffed. She flopped down into the chair next to Sam’s.

“Shame,” Jimmy said, though he’d never actually seen the damn thing. It was a ratty little terrier, and the reason Dean refused to let Sam and Lily get the kids pets. It had nearly eaten Jess’s rabbit whole, generously leaving them the head and a bit of its foot for them to find in the morning. It was like the bastard had wanted to make it clear what had happened to the poor thing, and left the evidence to reinforce its statement. Dean would have preferred it to shit on the lawn like a regular dog.

“Yeah, well,” Lily waved off Jimmy’s words with her hand. “It’s dead any way. But get this right, something _ate_ it.”

“Ate it?” Sam repeated under his breath. Jimmy put his burger back on the table, his usually chalky complexion turning ever so slightly green.

“That’s what she said,” Lily told them with a shrug.

“Man, that’s gross,” Dean muttered. “Why did they corner you about it?”

“See, here’s the thing, right – apparently Cassie’s been running through into their garden,” Lily explained. That much wasn’t too hard to believe; there weren’t any fences that marked out the boundaries. It was quite a way for Cassie to run, though; a whole acre in fact. Besides that, both Jimmy and Dean spent a good deal of their time watching Cassie play.

“I’d have noticed if he’d left the garden,” Jimmy pointed out.

“Yeah, well. They said they’d seen him out there at _night,_ ” Lily scoffed.

“What? That’s ridiculous,” Sam exclaimed. They glanced at Cassie, still running around through the grass. Kid would be dead beat if he’d spent the night at running to the Robertson’s property. He only had little legs.

“I know, I know. And, would you believe, they had the nerve to say they think that he had something to do with what happened to their dog,” Lily hissed.

“What, they can’t be suggesting that a five year old would do that? That’s ridiculous,” Sam said.

They all shook their heads about how awful it was for anyone to accuse Cassie of that. A few moments later, Cassie bounded up to them with offerings of crushed flower petals and splintered twigs. They laughed, because it was impossible for a child like that to commit a crime like the one he’d been accused of. He was a sweet, curious little kid. “Come on, Manny,” he called, and ran back down the garden. Sam frowned at the sound of his son’s imaginary friend’s name, but didn’t pick him up on it.

They all sat outside until it went dark, then, one by one, the children went to bed, and Sam and Lily followed soon after, tired from their days at their respective workplaces. Jimmy got up from his seat and slid instead into Dean’s lap. Dean smiled and looped his arms around him.

“Hey there, lover,” Jimmy mumbled into Dean’s hair.

“Hey,” Dean replied.

It wasn’t that they were hiding this aspect of their relationship, whatever that was, from the other members of the household. It just didn’t seem necessary for them to know about it. If at any point it felt as though Sam and Lily ought to know what was going on between them, then they’d tell them without hesitation. Not that they’d go into detail.

For example, Dean would not explain that the cut in the corner of his mouth was less to do with having dry lips from working outside, and more to do with Jimmy’s teeth tugging just a little too roughly at them. Likewise, Jimmy wouldn’t confess that the reason he’d not cut his hair wasn’t because he simply hadn’t got around to it, but because Dean liked to twist his fingers into it and tug his head down to his crotch with it. No. That would not have been appropriate.

So, maybe they hadn’t actually talked about it, and perhaps Dean hadn’t acknowledged they were anything but close friends apart from agreeing that maybe, just maybe, they’d been on a date. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with the idea. Not at all… it just made him feel a little weak at the knees whenever he tried to say anything important to Jimmy at all. It was better to leave it all unsaid, he thought. Actions had always spoken louder than words in Dean’s case, and his actions definitely confirmed that he thought of Jimmy as a very, very close friend in the least.

“What is it?” Jimmy asked him softly.

“Nothing,” Dean assured him, and found his lips to plant a kiss which he hoped would grow into a smile, but didn’t. Jimmy looked upset. “What?”

“Nothing, I…” Jimmy began, then he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay,” Dean agreed. Jimmy stood up.

“We should go to bed. Don’t you have a hundred miles to run tomorrow morning?” Jimmy asked him. Dean smiled and ducked his head. Jimmy sighed. “Do you miss it?”

“Running?”

“No, you know. Saving people,” Jimmy explained with a shrug. Dean took his hand.

“Saved you, didn’t I?” Dean asked. Jimmy blushed. It made Dean’s stomach fill with butterflies.

“I suppose you did,” he allowed. He sat back on Dean’s lap, though still would let himself be pulled in against his chest. “But you know what I mean.”

“You’re asking if I miss hunting,” Dean concluded. Jimmy nodded. “I don’t know. Sometimes I miss being on the road, you know. Then I look at the kids and I think that everything’s worked out… okay. I’m glad they get to be kids. I never had that.”

“Yes, but knowing that it’s for the best doesn’t mean you don’t miss it,” Jimmy pointed out.

“I guess not,” Dean agreed. “Is it for the best?” he mumbled, thinking aloud. Jimmy stiffened. He didn’t get up, he didn’t even flinch. He just became a statue of himself. “Jimmy?” Dean shook him a little.

“I’m fine.” His answer came through clenched teeth.

“I was just checking that, you know. Yeah,” Dean said uselessly. Jimmy said nothing. A breeze ruffled Jimmy’s hair, washing Dean with the rich smell of blueberries. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, though Jimmy was still rigid, and not in a good way. Dean huffed a long sigh and leaned forward into Jimmy’s arm.

“Hello, you,” Jimmy murmured, and softened just a tiny bit.

“Hello,” Dean replied into the skin of Jimmy’s arm. He nuzzled into it, trailing up him with his tongue until Jimmy’s t-shirt prevented him from advancing further. He straightened so he could kiss into Jimmy’s neck, tasting the sweet saltiness of his day in the sunshine. Jimmy moaned, quiet and defeated, the way he did the first time Dean’s mouth closed around his cock.

“Dean,” he breathed, turning into him, his lips hunting for Dean’s across his cheek and along his jaw. Dean refused him, turning his head further and further until Jimmy grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, close and inescapable. As they kissed Jimmy moved to keep Dean pinned into his chair. Jimmy’s skinny jeans were unforgiving and did nothing to disguise the steadily growing bulge in his pants. It made Dean grin triumphantly under Jimmy’s lips. “What?” Jimmy demanded, not pulling away.

“It’s so good that I can get you all worked up like this,” Dean confessed. His words were wet brushes against Jimmy’s mouth. His tongue darted out to catch them, lapping at the sentiment. Dean’s hands wound around him to cup his ass. Jimmy’s fingers trailed down Dean’s chest and came together over the button on his jeans. Dean shifted to press his hips into the contact, his head falling back out of the kiss to leave him blinking at the sky.

He felt a splash of rain on his forehead.

“Jimmy…” he began, but the rain was already picking up. Another droplet joined the first and within seconds Jimmy was soaking, his back shielding Dean from the worst of it. “We should go inside,” Dean said softly. Jimmy kissed his cheek.

“No.” He kissed the other cheek. “I don’t think.” He kissed Dean’s Adam’s apple. “We should.” The centre of his chest. Dean’s heart thudded. “The house is full.” The bottom of his ribcage. “And out here, it’s just the two of us.” Just above his navel. The sky flashed white, sheet lightening lighting up the patio, which shone like everything was made of silver. “Let’s stay,” he said into the exposed skin between the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt and the waistband of his boxers. He peered up at Dean, eyes wide with expectation and anticipation. Dean’s hands scrabbled at the slick wet hem of Jimmy’s top. It peeled off his skin.

Dean caressed him, each fingertip drawing reminders, indicators; little signs to tell Jimmy that he needed him. They skirted over marks made by Cas, because Cas was not there, not in those marks, not inside Jimmy. This moment was theirs, and Dean’s touch found the purpled kiss on Jimmy’s collar bone from the night before, and pink trails of nails like claws over his perfect hip bones. They labelled Jimmy as Dean’s. Not Cas’. Dean’s. And Dean belonged to Jimmy. That cut in his lip, the hand print over his ass that he twisted in the mirror to look at, they said so. Dean was his.

Jimmy trembled, but not in the way Dean liked. “You’re cold,” he accused. Jimmy roughly kissed him to silence him. Dean was too preoccupied by Jimmy’s hand as it brushed, brushed, brushed against the inside of his thigh. Then Jimmy shivered again. “You’re definitely cold,” Dean said, this time pushing Jimmy upright. Water fell in rivulets of his lips. He squinted, his eyelashes heavy with rain. It was getting louder and heavier. “I know,” Dean murmured. He patted Jimmy’s side, a well understood hint for him to get off of him.

He led Jimmy across the garden by the hand. Jimmy laughed. “Where are you taking me?”

“Here,” Dean told him, when they reached the stable. The door was just propped over the entrance. The tiles were all blown off the roof, but Dean had had the good sense to keep the place sheltered with a big blue sheet of tarpaulin. The sound of the rain was magnified tenfold by it, so Jimmy probably never hear Dean’s words, not that he needed to.

Inside the stables, the sound of the rain was everything. It drowned out the desperate, ragged sound of Dean and Jimmy’s breaths as they breathed each other’s air. Outside the rain had sapped away all the evening’s warmth, but the stone walls of the stable had held onto it. It was dark, the clouds being too thick for the light of the moon to shine through. It probably wouldn’t have found its way into the stable anyway. It was a holy space, a tiny church, their little heaven. Their clothes hit the floor with wet thuds that were drowned by the chorus voices of a thousand raindrops rebounding off plastic and stone.

The ground was uneven, things fractured and split under their feet as Dean held Jimmy up against the wall. Jimmy’s hands reached up towards the ceiling where they stood, right under where the roof would have pitched if there had been a real roof left at all. “I got you,” Dean breathed into his ear, a tiny mantra, a reply to Jimmy’s pleas not minutes before, begging for Dean to take him. There was a blanket in there somewhere, Dean knew. He remembered stashing it in there with a few other off-casts from the house after he last decorated the living room.

He felt around in the darkness, his fingers finally finding soft fabric amongst the rubble and soft curves of what had to be broken pots. He shook of the dust, and spread the blanket onto the ground, guiding Jimmy to it. He lay him down like he was made of porcelain. He regretted that he couldn’t hear Jimmy’s cries and moans of elation over the storm.

They slept curled around each other.

In the morning, the sun’s rays turned the blue tarp into a too-blue artificial sky. The stable was filled with blue diffused light that washed out the colour in everything. Jimmy’s skin looked like it had been worked out of alabaster, soft and pale under Dean’s touch. Jimmy and the ceiling was all he could see when he first woke up, and he smiled.

He sat up and stretched. He looked around the place. His smile disappeared.

“Jimmy?” he called, and he knew as soon as he said it that he sounded every bit as hysterical as he felt.

“Baby?” Jimmy mumbled, groggy with sleep.

“Baby is my _car,_ ” Dean snapped.

“What’s wrong?” Jimmy sat up abruptly. “Oh god. Oh fuck.”

The whole place - its entire floor - was carpeted with fragments of bone, matted clumps of half-hardened fur, sharp hooked teeth. On its side, half emerging from the debris that surrounded it, was the skull of a small dog. Dean peered closer. Around the wide, empty sockets that had once held eyes were little grooves in the bone. His stomach turned. They were gnaw marks.


	11. Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking

Dean batted a fly away from his face. The sound of them buzzing around the stable was like a hollow rendition of the rain’s song from the night before. Sam was squatted in the other corner of the room, in Dean’s spare gardening gloves, helping to shovel the debris of whatever the hell had been living in here. “What do you think this thing even was?” Sam wondered aloud, squinting at what looked to be a rib the length of his finger.

“I don’t want to know,” Dean grumbled.

“Some of these bones have been here a while, but some of them… the flesh has been stripped off, but I think they’re fresh,” Sam told him. Dean shook his head and grabbed another handful. Most of the remains appeared be from birds and mice, but there were a few things that had to be from something a little larger. There had to be hundreds of creatures that had died to fill the place, and more worrying was that there didn’t seem to be much more than partial skeletons, which meant there was probably more than there looked to be. That thought was sobering; it looked like a _lot_.

“Look,” Sam instructed, leaning towards Dean, “you can see teeth marks in lines right along the bone, in a long scrape,” he was holing a small femur. His finger traced a score that ran its whole length. “They wanted every last bit of meat off this thing.”

“What the hell would do something like that?” Dean asked, taking the bone off his brother and shoving it into the bag so he didn’t have to look at it any more.

“I don’t know, but the marks aren’t from any animal I recognise. How about you?”

Dean had been avoiding looking at the remains too closely. How had he and Jimmy been so wrapped up in each other to notice this last night? They’d slept on this ground, in this tomb. Begrudgingly, he squinted at a tiny bird skull. “Nothing I can think of,” he admitted. The marks were uneven, as though the teeth that had made them were uneven. Maybe one of them was chipped. There weren’t any deep enough to belong to a mountain lion or anything crazy like that. Dean’s mind riled. He was picturing a small bear with broken teeth.

“What can be bothered hunting birds, but can take on a dog successfully enough to behead it?” Sam mused, shaking his head. “Maybe the Robertson’s will let us take a look at the rest of it…”

“Sammy, it was their family dog. I don’t think they’re going to let us go in and mess around with it for curiosities sake,” Dean snapped. Sam scowled. It was like the old days. Except it wasn’t.

“We need to find out what this is, it could be dangerous,” Sam said, his voice a little higher pitched in an effort to send Dean up. Dean wasn’t having any of it.

“Whatever it is will have to clear off when I fix the door. It won’t be able to hide its kills in here anymore so it will piss off to the next little _lair_ it comes across. Thing obviously doesn’t sleep here; who knows how many hovels like this the damn thing’s made for itself,” Dean growled.

“I don’t know, something about this doesn’t feel right,” Sam mumbled. Dean sighed exasperatedly.

“That’s because something isn’t right; our outhouse is filled with bones, that’s what’s wrong. We’re almost finished, then you won’t have to think about this anymore,” Dean pointed out curtly.

“What if it’s not… what if it’s not something natural?” Sam asked quietly.

“What, like a demon?”

Sam nodded.

“Sammy, it’s been fifteen years-”

“There was that pentagram that showed up in our garden, remember? What if someone managed to summon something and it’s living here?” Sam shouted.

“What the hell do you think it was that Cas did?” Dean yelled back. Sam glared at him but Dean glared right back, unwavering.

“I know, but what if it’s not-”

“What if it’s not working anymore?” Dean hijacked Sam’s sentence and finished it for him with incredulity. “He died to do this thing, Sammy, I hardly think it’s got an expiry date.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Sam hissed defensively.

“Even at the beginning you didn’t think this would work – you know something I don’t? That Cas didn’t?” Dean growled.

“Hey, don’t you go making out like I was the only one who had doubts! It took some convincing at first, you know that! Spending your life hunting demons makes it a little difficult to believe that anyone – even Cas – could just s _top_ them,” Sam reminded him. Dean knew it was true and he could no longer look Sam in the eye.

“He didn’t “just stop them”. He died. He paid for it in his own blood, with his own _life_.” If it hadn’t worked, then Cas’ life hadn’t been enough, and the thought of that was too much for Dean to dwell on. If that was true, he’d have gone back and stopped Cas from intervening. He’d rather stand and watch the world burn than Cas throw his life away if whatever power it was he was trading with didn’t think it was e _nough_. Cas’ life was worth a thousand earths and heavens and hells. Dean would not be told otherwise.

Cas was… Dean realised he didn’t know anymore. Had he ever known, really? Cas was hard lines and absence and always walking away, hopeless and splitting at the seams as he tried to carry the weight of the world on his back. There were times, Dean knew, where Cas wouldn’t have stepped in to save the world at all. He didn’t understand what Jimmy had done for him, or what he was doing to Jimmy.

Jimmy. Soft, warm, close.

“Sam!” Lily’s voice was raised in panic and came from inside the house. Sam dropped the stuff he’d been holding to the ground and hurried out of the stables. Dean did the same and followed in an instant. They were both sprinting across the lawn. She wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room. They bounded up the stairs.

“Lily!” Sam yelled. She was in the hallway outside the bathroom, covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide, and as they approached her, tears rolled from them down her cheeks. “What, Lily, what’s happened?” Sam pleaded desperately. As she shook her head, Dean stepped past them and into the bathroom through the open door.

The bath was full and with an unbroken film of bubbles. Dean’s fists unclenched; he’d been dreading seeing Jimmy there, sprawled. Instead he was kneeling on the floor. Cassie sat perched on the closed toilet seat, his expression uncomprehending, as though he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. “What?” Dean breathed, have to force the words out of himself. Jimmy looked up at him and swallowed. Instead of answering, he looked back at Cassie, who was just wrapped in a towel.

“Show uncle Dean,” Jimmy told him gently. Still, Cassie looked only slightly confused. Dean braced himself. He didn’t know what to expect, only that the world was still home to all manner of twisted fucks even if it was no longer home to demons. Humans could be monsters too. Cassie slipped the towel aside and Dean gasped. There were little cuts all over his body, shallow and deliberate. They weren’t everyday grazes, or nicks and scratches from playing in the bushes. They were cuts. Someone had done that too him.

“Oh, Cassie,” Dean gasped, wrapping him back in his duckling-yellow towel. “Buddy, I need to know who made the marks all over you,” Dean told him. He was not as good as Jimmy at keeping his voice even and calm. Cassie looked worried for the first time.

“It’s okay, you can tell him,” Jimmy encouraged Cassie with a nod.

“Manny did it,” Cassie said with a shrug. Dean looked at Jimmy, but he only shook his head. Cassie watched.

“Little man, you know Manny isn’t real, right?” Dean choked. Cassie shook his head.

“He’s _real,_ ” Cassie snapped.

After a sombre dinner, and they’d made sure the kids were all in bed, Sam, Lily and Dean stood in the living room, arguing in hushed voices.

“Well it’s obviously not his imaginary friend, is it?” Lily hissed.

“It might be somebody from preschool,” Dean suggested.

“He’s had quite a few baths since the end of school, and there have been no marks on him until this afternoon,” Jimmy pointed out.

“You seem to be very close to him, Jimmy,” Lily growled.

“Actually, I am pretty close to him,” Jimmy snapped. “Are you accusing me?”

“I’m saying that the opportunity was there.”

“I can’t believe you’d insinuate something like this!” Jimmy scoffed.

“Woah! Calm down. Nobody’s insinuating anything,” Sam said, raising his hands.

“That’s not what it sounds like,” Jimmy spat.

“Hey, could we stop jumping down each other’s throats, please?” Dean pleaded. The three of them glared at him. “Sometimes kids do fucked up things.”

“Are you saying he did this to himself?” Lily laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“When I asked him where Manny lived, he pointed at his head,” Jimmy offered. “I hate to be the one to suggest this but… maybe he’s sick.”

“My son’s not crazy!” Lily yelled.

“I’m not saying that! I’m just saying-”

“There’s nothing wrong with my son!” Lily insisted.

“Oh yeah? The cuts on his chest beg to differ,” Dean grumbled.

“Are you saying that I could have done this to him?!” Lily exclaimed.

“What? No!” Dean growled. “Maybe _you’re_ the one who’s crazy.”

“Would you stop?” Sam shouted. It was his turn to get glared at. Sam took a deep breath. “Maybe… maybe we’re thinking about this in the wrong way,” he suggested, “looking in the wrong places.”

“What do you mean?” Jimmy asked, his voice remarkably calm already. Dean felt like he was trying not to boil over.

“Dean, you’ve been reading my demonology books, right?” Sam said quietly. Dean closed his eyes.

“Sammy…” Dean groaned.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy. But there are demons that could do this to someone, or get them to do it to themselves, if they were fighting to get control of that person,” Sam was obviously working very hard to keep himself in check at this point. There boiling anger inside of Dean got closer and closer to pouring out of him with every second.

“Sam, honey,” Lily said gently, putting a hand on Sam’s arm. “I don’t think it’s a demon,” she told him softly. He looked a little betrayed.

“But you’ve read the books. It’s possible, right?” Sam’s voice was tiny.

“Yeah, I’ve read the books. It _was_ possible, once. But not anymore,” she told him. She looked at Jimmy.

“But we _know_ Cassie! This isn’t something he’s capable of doing,” Sam continued, but his tone was pleading. “We don’t know how successful-”

“Cas. Is. DEAD.” Dean was shouting.

“Dean,” Jimmy said softly. The light above them flickered. Dean stared up at it. Jimmy stepped towards him and put a hand in each of Dean’s.

“He died to stop them from getting through, he sacrificed himself to finish it.”

“Dean,” Jimmy said again.

“He’s dead, Jimmy!” Dean yelled. Jimmy sighed and let go of Dean’s hands.

“We need to talk about this,” Jimmy told him. Sam’s eyes were wide. Dean was furious.

“Talk about what?” Sam asked, stepping forward to put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Dean growled. Jimmy’s head fell forward. Dean couldn’t see his eyes, and suddenly found himself in desperate need to see them. There was nothing without them, and the room was dark. The two foot of carpet and air that separated them was filled with hundreds of miles and Dean could barely breathe under the pressure mounting in that distance. “Jimmy,” Dean pleaded.

“I can’t go on dancing around this anymore! It’s been weeks, Dean, and you haven’t brought it up once.” Jimmy still had his back to Dean as he spoke.

“Brought what up once?” Lily interjected.

“It’s been happening for months now,” Jimmy began. Dean didn’t want to hear this. “I was getting headaches, nosebleeds… having nightmares. When we were in Rome, I… I collapsed. Dean took me to the hospital-”

“Dean said there was nothing wrong!” Sam exclaimed.

“There wasn’t anything, that’s how I’m sure,” Jimmy said.

“Please…” Dean begged. Sam looked from him to Jimmy. Lily was standing in front of Sam, her stance weirdly protective and lingering from before. Dean slumped down into the corduroy of the couch. As he came into contact with it, it let out a gust of old, familiar smelling air, like dusty books and cinnamon sticks.

“It’s Castiel,” Jimmy announced. He’d said it before, but only to Dean. Having those words fall on other ears somehow made them more real. The weight of them had been suffocating Dean but having Jimmy release them seemed to only make them grow larger.

“Are you sure?” Lily whispered.

“I’m certain,” Jimmy whispered too.

“But that’s not possible,” Sam hissed, shaking his head so his hair flopped around his face from behind his ears.

“Whatever walls he built up to keep everything out aren’t as strong as he thought,” Jimmy explained.

“So, what… he’s speaking to you?” Sam asked. Jimmy glanced at Dean for the first time and Dean’s heart sank right to his ankles.

“Not exactly,” Jimmy admitted. Sam shook his head and shrugged. Lily was looking at Dean with pity in her eyes. He could burn the world.

“What then?” Sam demanded.

“He’s… confused.”

“Confused?” Sam scoffed.

“Well it’s more like… disorientated,” Jimmy’s voice was strained.

“Why?”

“That’s enough, Sam,” Dean said firmly. Jimmy turned, eyes wide and grateful and open. Jimmy. Not Cas. Jimmy.

“It’s just little glimpses every now and again,” Jimmy explained. “But he’s coming through.”

 _Don’t say that_ , Dean wanted to yell, but he didn’t. _If Cas is coming through, then where are you going?_ He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t. _Don’t leave me. Not again._ The words wouldn’t come.

“So what you’re saying is, I might be right about Cassie?” Sam squeaked.

“It’s not as implausible as it might have been had this not been the case,” Jimmy replied, in a remarkable impression of Castiel.

“Don’t,” Dean’s voice was hoarse. He reached out and grabbed Jimmy’s hand. “Don’t talk like that,” he pleaded.

“Like what?” Jimmy asked.

“Like him,” Dean replied. Jimmy closed his eyes. Dean almost couldn’t take it.

“Dean!” Sam yelled desperately. “Cassie might be in danger! What if he’s possessed? What are we going to do?”

“I doubt he’s possessed,” Jimmy offered. “From what I can tell, if anything is able to get through the fortifications, it would have to be extremely powerful.”

“But, it wouldn’t hurt to be sure?” Lily pressed. She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about this stuff, I don’t _want_ to know anything about it and I never have.” She looked at Jimmy with desperation in her eyes.

“What are you asking him?” Dean snapped. Sam flashed him a warning look, a don’t-threaten-my-partner look, and Dean flashed him a don’t-endanger-mine one right back at him. Sam looked a little confused.

“An angel would know, if he looked at the injuries, he’d know if it was a demon, right?” she asked. Dean’s grip on Jimmy’s hand tightened. He wanted the little movements of his fingertips over Jimmy’s knuckles to explain that he didn’t have to answer, for the contact to speak like it did when they fucked. Jimmy’s grip tightened back and Dean could only assume that he’d understood.

“Just one problem; no supernaturals means no angels,” Dean pointed out.

“Right; but there is an angel, isn’t there? And that’s what’s got us to this point in the conversation,” Sam said and stepped forwards. Lily put her hand on Sam’s forearm, where it was crossed over the other one and knitted tightly round his chest.

“Jimmy,” Lily said, letting her hand fall and stepping closer to him as she said his name. If Dean had hackles they’d have been risen, and all his hair on end. He’d be snarling already, too. “Is there any way at all that you can ask Castiel to help us?” she pleaded. Jimmy’s shoulder’s slumped, his grip on Dean’s fingers loosening. He was giving in.

“You don’t have to do anything,” the words tore at Dean’s throat they were so loud. Jimmy dropped his hand in shock.

“Dean,” Jimmy begged, looking at him desperately. Those eyes were Jimmy’s eyes, wide and blue and endless. This wasn’t going to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. Dean closed his eyes and turned away. He was upstairs before he opened them again. He tore at Sam’s books, shoving them off his shelf. He threw Jimmy’s score sheets across the room and they scattered and wafted like feathers. He touched the place in the bed where Jimmy was supposed to lie, and he wanted to scream.

“Fifteen years!” he yelled. “Castiel! Fifteen fucking years I waited for you. Fifteen years I prayed to you every single night and you gave me nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t know what the fuck I am to you but you’re nothing to me. I don’t want you. You hear me? I don’t WANT you!”

He was shaking in the wardrobe and his hands were on the trench coat. He pulled and it tore and the sound was like rain and the seams came apart in his hands.

He stopped.

His heart pounded. It was a year between every swell of blood in his veins. The light flickered. His hands curled around the shreds of the coat and he folded them gently. He cradled them to his chest.

“Dean,” Jimmy breathed. Jimmy’s arms slipped under his, his legs slotting either side of his hips. He rocked gently back and forth with Dean, his face pressed into the back of his neck so Dean could feel hot blasts of his breaths right down his spine.

“I don’t want him,” Dean moaned quietly. “I want you,” he added brokenly.

“I know, baby, I know,” Jimmy soothed.

“B-baby is my _car_ ,” Dean protested shakily, and half-sobbed, half-laughed. Jimmy chuckled and the low sound reverberated through Dean’s chest, pressed close as they were. “Jimmy,” he whined, lolling his head back onto Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy was looking at the ceiling. Dean kissed his jaw, and Jimmy sighed, the whole of Dean falling a few inches. They let themselves roll back onto the floorboards and twist so they were side-by-side and facing one another.

“I love you,” Jimmy breathed. Dean ducked his head into Jimmy’s shoulder, nuzzling his chest.

“You do?” Dean asked when his face was hidden. Jimmy chuckled again.

“Dean Winchester,” Jimmy sighed. “I’m stupidly, madly, crazily in love with you.” He said each word with reverence. “I-“ he paused. Dean lifted his head curiously to see Jimmy’s face. It was a curious mix of passion and apprehension. “I’ve seen your soul,” Jimmy whispered. Dean frowned; Jimmy’s fingers traced the lines of his eyebrows. “I know… I know love is not a thing you find easy to express often, and I know that… sometimes you find it difficult to hear people tell that they love you, too.”

“Oh,” Dean mumbled. He rolled up onto his elbow and looked down at Jimmy on the floor. He smiled up at him, and it would have been perfect if Dean could have ignored the need in his eyes.

“I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean, but I need to hear it from you now, if you love me too,” Jimmy confessed. Dean kissed each corner of his mouth so he didn’t have to watch his carefully arranged smile slide away.

“Why now?” Dean asked into his lips. Jimmy’s fingers carded through his hair. Dean was so close he could see the perfect geometric shapes in Jimmy’s irises, how the colour deepened and brightened smoothly but definitely, like the sun against blue sand dunes or foaming waves.

“You have an entire star-scape mapped on your skin,” Jimmy whispered. _And you’ve got oceans in your eyes_ , Dean wanted to say, but he didn’t. “You understand me, know me… take me for what I am and all I have.” Dean was kissing him, shutting him up. He didn’t want to hear it. Jimmy kissed him back like he knew. He lifted him and propped him against the end of their bed and kissed him, kissed him, but Jimmy was empty. Dean pulled away.

“Jimmy,” he begged. “Jimmy.”

“I need you to say it,” Jimmy pleaded. Dean caught his mouth right at the end of the last word, and his tongue traced the inside of his lips. His fingers wound into Jimmy’s hair and he moaned. Dean slid his free hand up the back of Jimmy’s t-shirt, his fingers clawing gently but desperately against his skin. Jimmy was coming to life a little, his own hands wandering up Dean’s back and massaging his shoulders for a moment then yanking him backwards. Dean’s mouth stung where it had touched Jimmy’s just moments before.

“No,” Dean growled, and pulled himself free of Jimmy’s grip. He knew he was going too far, that his was too much, and he could feel his eyes stinging and tears on his cheeks as he tried desperately to find purchase on Jimmy’s unyielding mouth. Dean stopped. He rolled back, slumped against the open wardrobe door. Cas’ coat was in tatters in the space between them. “I need you,” Dean pleaded. Jimmy shook his head.

“I need you to say it,” Jimmy replied.

“No.”

“Please.”

“Why? Why now? Why like this?” Dean found himself yelling again and felt immediately guilty, but he wasn't going to apologize. 

“Because you’re the kind of man who spends a decade not telling someone he loves them, and fifteen years regretting it once they’re gone, and I don’t know how much longer I have left and I’m sure as hell not leaving you here to mope for the rest of your life,” Jimmy yelled right back at him. 

“What do you mean, you don’t know how much longer you have left? You’re fine! The doctors said you were fine!” Dean screeched. Jimmy got to his feet and pulled his shirt over his head, and threw it on the ground. “What are you doing?”

“Look at me!” Jimmy commanded. “Who am I?”

“Jimmy Novak,” Dean answered. Jimmy growled in frustration. He turned around, and Dean couldn’t look anywhere but the two thick scars over his shoulder blades. He turned back to face Dean.

“Tell me who I am Dean,” Jimmy said softly. He stepped closer very slowly, allowing Dean to drink in every inch of him; the scars on his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the soft pink of his nipples, the undulating contours of his muscles, the nape of his neck. “Tell me,” he whispered, just inches from him now. Dean was having to crane his neck to look up at him, his face a hand’s breadth from being buried in his crotch.

“Jim-” Dean began but was cut off by a face-full of Jimmy’s pants. Jimmy’s fingers brushed the top of his nose and unbuttoned his trousers. He shimmied and stepped back maybe half a foot and his pants were gone. He stepped back again until he was sat on the end of the bed. Dean followed him mindlessly, a man possessed. Jimmy lay utterly still and silent as Dean ran his hands all over him, but when Dean’s hands reached for the buttons of his own shirt, Jimmy grabbed his wrists.

“Can you see my soul?” Jimmy whispered. Dean kissed his forehead.

“I love you,” Dean promised. His lip quivered when he said it. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he breathed, allowed himself to crumble.


	12. Namesakes

The summer didn’t seem to want to admit that it was coming to a close; the sun was beating down more relentlessly than ever as Dean sat on the top of the stable’s stone wall, hammering a plank of wood into place. The interior was completely clear and the small pine wood door already fixed in place the day before. It was just the roof that needed doing now, and Dean could sort out the wiring, and begin to decorate the inside. He was working at it with crazed fury. He could feel sweat dripping down his neck.

“Uncle Dean?” Jess called. He paused his hammering and peered down at her. She was shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

“What is it?” he grunted.

“Could I fix lunch?” she asked. Dean sighed and jumped down from his perch.

“That’s unusually helpful of you,” he observed. She shrugged. “Hasn’t Jimmy already made something for you guys?” he asked. Jess looks conflicted. “What?”

“Dad said if Jimmy was sleeping we shouldn’t wake him up unless it was an emergency,” Jess mumbled. Dean sighed. Jimmy had been sleeping more and more. He didn’t want to think about it.

“Where are your brothers?”

“Uh, Bobby’s watching TV and Cassie’s in the garden somewhere,” she explained with a shrug. Dean looked around; there was no sign of Cassie.

“Jessie! You need to keep a closer eye on him,” Dean groaned. Jess huffed and began to slump towards the house. “I’ll come in and fix lunch, alright?” he called after her.

“Right,” she grunted. Dean wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Cassie!” he yelled, walking towards the bottom of the garden. No reply. “Cassie, buddy! Time to come in for lunch!” he yelled again. He was right on the edge of the treeline, when he noticed a pile of grass cuttings. The grass didn’t grow here; the roots of the trees were greedy and stole all the water, and Dean usually raked in the direction of the house so it was easier for the piles to be collected when he was done. He frowned, and kicked the grass apart. It released a revolting smell that made him stagger backward. “Gross,” he said to himself, waving his hands to disband the army of flies that was fleeing from the mound as though their last defence had just been uncovered. He kicked more of the grass aside and yelped, jumping back as a half-rotten deer’s head rolled out towards his feet.

“Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, covering his mouth as he retched. That was what the stench was. He trailed back towards the stable and returned to the mound with a trash bag to dispose of the thing in. He put his hands inside the bag and lifted the skull like as though it was a gigantic dog poop. It was warm and too pliant under his fingers. He was struggling not to puke. He held the bag at arm’s length and poked the mound experimentally with the tip of his boot to make sure there was no more of it hidden in there. There didn’t seem to be, but there were pieces of cloth that had been dyed red with its blood. He groaned; he’d have to grab these by hand. At least it didn’t have clumps of blackened flesh with fur on it still hanging to it like the deer’s head had. He lifted a strip and was about to shove it into the bag when he recognised the round, cream and brown plastic buttons.

His breath caught in his throat. He dropped the strip and the bag on the ground and bolted into the house.

Jess was leaning against the kitchen table, “what’s for lunch?” she asked as Dean ran past her.

“Not now,” he grunted, and he bolted up the stairs. He yanked open their bedroom door, and headed straight for the wardrobe, throwing the doors wide open. He knelt on the ground and took out the shoe box from the back of it with shaking hands. It was too light; he knew already. He took off the lid. The pulled apart remains of the trench-coat were gone. The photograph of Dean and Cas that had been on his bedside table for years was still in there, where he’d put it after he’d torn the coat up. That had been the last time he opened this box; almost four weeks ago. He thundered back down the stairs.

Jimmy was slumped on the sofa, wrapped in a wool blanket over his clothes even though it was eighty degrees outside. Dean brushed his cheek with his lips and stroked his fingers; they were cool to the touch. He felt Jimmy’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “Jimmy,” he called softly.

“Is everything okay?” Jimmy asked sleepily. Dean rested his forehead against Jimmy’s.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he assured him. “How’s things?”

“Uh, tiring,” Jimmy answered with a smile. He glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. “It’s so late! How have I been asleep so long?” he mumbled. Dean moved to hide his face, because he was sure he couldn’t hide the amount of worry he was carrying.

“Have you looked at Cas’ things?” he asked.

“No, no…” Jimmy looked pained and Dean immediately wished he hadn’t asked him. “Why? What’s happened?” Jimmy began, but Dean was already shaking his head.

“Nothing; don’t worry about it,” he said, in the softest, calmest voice he could manage.

“You’re lying to me,” Jimmy mumbled, but he inclined his head in Dean’s direction to be kissed. Dean obliged. Even Jimmy’s lips were cold.

“Yeah,” Dean admitted.

“Is it important?” he asked. He stretched and moves so he was more upright. His hair was all sticking out at odd angles; Dean smoothed it, but it didn’t make any difference. “Dean?”

“Maybe.” The word was sour on Dean’s tongue. Jimmy frowned. “Don’t. It’s alright. I’ll tell you if it’s important, I promise,” Dean assured him.

“I’m not a porcelain doll,” Jimmy protested. Dean grimaced. There was no colour in Jimmy’s cheeks, so his smooth skin was almost white where he’d gotten so used to it being flushed. Set in purple circles, his too-blue eyes were wide and glassy, framed thickly with lashes, waiting patiently for Dean to speak. Dean stroked his arm.

“I just don’t want to worry you unnecessarily,” Dean explained. He was speaking with Sam’s words, and the thought of that made him squirm.

“Okay,” Jimmy conceded, and leaned to kiss the tip of Dean’s nose. “Don’t leave me sleeping like that again, alright?” he instructed him. Dean shrugged noncommittally. “Dean – promise me?”

“But you’re so tired,” Dean pointed out, brushing the shadows under Jimmy’s eyes with his thumb. Jimmy smiled sadly.

“I don’t know how many mornings I have left.” He slid forwards, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist. Dean nuzzled into his hair.

“Don’t,” he groaned. Jimmy sighed and pulled away. “You want pasta for lunch?” Dean asked.

“I’m not hungry,” Jimmy answered with a shrug. Dean didn’t argue; there wasn’t any point. He got to his feet. “Remember you promised to tell me if it’s important,” Jimmy reminds him.

“I’ll remember if it’s important,” Dean answered with a wink. Jimmy chuckled quietly and stood up with a groan. Dean steps forward automatically to offer him help, but Jimmy scowls and walks right past him into the kitchen.

“I’ll make lunch,” Jimmy announced.

“Jim-”

“I’m doing it!” he insisted, and he’d already reached for the pan.

“Just do sandwiches, then,” Dean complained. Jimmy sighed, but put the pan back on the shelf. “I’ll have peanut butter.”

“Do I look like an idiot? Of course you’ll have peanut butter,” Jimmy muttered.

“Cheese,” Jess called in a singsong voice.

“Cheese what, young lady?” Dean pulled her up on her manners.

“Cheese sandwich,” she said with a grin. “Cheese _please_.” Dean elbowed her in the ribs.

“What about the boys?” Jimmy asked.

“Bobby?” Dean yelled back through into the living room.

“Jelly!” he called back a moment later, obviously having been listening in on the conversation.

“Ah, of course. I should have known,” Jimmy said, reaching into the bread bag and pulling out eight slices. “And how about for Cassie?”

“Dammit,” Dean groaned. “Give me a minute.” He ran back out into the garden and right down the lawn. “Cassie! It’s time for lunch!” Dean yelled. There was a figure crouched over the mound of grass where the deer had been. He was wearing sleeves of blood. “Hey! Get away from there!” Dean shouted, running towards him. Then he stopped. It was Cassie. He was holding the strip of Cas’ trench coat in his hand. “Cassie?”

Cassie opened his mouth and screamed at the top of his lungs, not for a moment breaking eye contact with Dean. For a second, Dean didn’t know what to do other than stand there, gawping at the tiny boy as he shrieked at him. Finally, his body acted on his behalf, running up to Cassie and grabbing him by the shoulders. He was still screaming. “Cassie! Stop!” Dean yelled, and shook him once. For a second – no, less than a second, a tiny fraction of a second – his eyes went completely back. Dean let go of him and staggered backwards. Cassie stopped screaming, and blinked.

“Uncle Dean?” he asked. He saw the blood on his hands and the rag he was clinging too and began to cry, immediately dropping it. Dean rushed forward and enveloped him with his arms.

“Hey, no, it’s alright, sh,” he soothed, rocking himself and Cassie back and forth very slightly.

“Dean, what is it?” Jimmy asked. He was panting. Dean shook his head, clutching Cassie close to his chest. Jimmy flopped onto the floor, breathless.

“Something left a deer carcass up here. I was in the middle of cleaning it up and he found it,” Dean explained. Jimmy was frowning and still not able to recover his breath. Cassie was shaking. His eyes hadn’t been black. They couldn’t have been. It must have been a trick of the light, that’s all. Dean squeezed him, then pulled back enough to look at his face. “You alright now?” he asked him. Cassie nodded. “If you find something like this again, you come tell me right away, you don’t touch it. Understand?” Dean said firmly. Cassie looked confused, but nodded his head. “Go back to the house and wash up,” Dean instructed. Cassie sniffed, and ran towards the house.

“That doesn’t look like a whole deer,” Jimmy pointed out between gasps, nodding towards the pile. Dean peered at it; the whole pelvis was jutting out of the grass now. He wondered how he’d missed that before.

“Yeah, some of it’s in the bag,” Dean shrugged.

“That still doesn’t look like enough to make a whole deer,” Jimmy noted. Dean frowned. “You said about the stuff in the stable, that it was only parts of skeletons. Maybe whatever did that also did this?” Jimmy asked. Dean shook his head.

“That was all birds and mice and stuff. The biggest thing in there was the dog and that thing was more related to a rat than a wolf if you ask me,” Dean explained.

“Maybe it’s moved on to bigger kills?” Jimmy asked.

“No – there’s nothing that would bother putting in the effort to kill a bird a few months ago that would be capable of bringing down a whole deer now.” Dean was still shaking his head slightly from side to side.

“That doesn’t look like it’s a part of a deer at all,” Jimmy said, tilting his head to the side and squinting at the piece of Cas’ coat. Dean didn’t say anything. Jimmy groaned and wound up lying flat. Dean shuffled towards him. “Jimmy?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,” he promised. His breathing still wasn’t evening itself out properly. Dean watched him for a few moments. “I think I need help,” Jimmy finally admitted. Dean’s hand was already reaching down towards him. He hoisted Jimmy to his feet and wrapped an arm around him to keep him that way. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay,” Dean assured him, and kissed his neck. Jimmy smiled. “I’ll finish making lunch, then come out here and get rid of that deer.”

“Alright,” Jimmy agreed. Dean helped him all the way back into the kitchen, and then let him slump into one of the chairs at the table. Jess had evidently finished making her own lunch and taken it upstairs.

“Would you at least try to eat a sandwich or something?” Dean pleaded. Jimmy sighed.

“I’m just not hungry.”

“Please?” Dean asked. “You just look thin, that’s all.”

“I _am_ thin,” Jimmy corrected. Dean slammed the peanut butter jar onto the work surface.

“Stop that right now,” he growled. Silence. “You hear me?” he snapped.

“I heard,” Jimmy sighed. Dean went to the fridge and grabbed the jam. “Was that Cas’ coat out there?” he asked. Dean froze, knife in jar, and turned to him.

“I don’t know,” Dean mumbled.

“Dean.” Jimmy warned. “You promised to tell me if it was important.”

There was a storm of footsteps and Cassie appeared at the bottom of the stairs, blood washed from his hands and his cheeks flushed bright red. He looked worried. “Jelly sandwiches?” Dean asked him. Cassie offered a small smile. “That okay?” Cassie nodded. Dean finished making it and handed it to him on a plate. “There’s enough on there for you and Bobby to share. Remember what I said before, alright?” Dean reminded him. The smile vanished and he nodded gravely. “You’re not in trouble. Go watch TV with your brother,” Dean commanded. Cassie didn’t say anything, and hurried into the living room.

“He seems shaken up,” Jimmy observed.

“Yeah. No wonder; poor kid,” Dean said, shaking his head.

“It was his coat wasn’t it?” Jimmy said flatly. Dean looked at the floor.

“Yes.”

“It was in there with that deer, you know. I don’t think you can pretend those things aren’t related.”

“No,” Dean admitted. He looked out of the window at the glorious sunshine pouring over the grass and the half-built stable-cottage in the corner. He needed to get back out there and finish it as soon as he could. He looked back at Jimmy. He looked small and frail and lost. Dean needed to finish it fast.

“It’s not an animal that’s killing these things, is it?” Jimmy began. Dean sighed.

“Don’t go all Sammy on me, here,” he groaned. Sam was struggling to relinquish his belief that Cassie was possessed, but since they found the marks all over him, nothing had seemed strange. He’d been quieter than usual but that seemed reasonable after whatever had happened to him; they just couldn’t get him to tell them exactly what that was.

“No, I’m not!” Jimmy assured him. Jimmy took a deep breath. “Maybe… maybe _I’m_ doing it…” he whispered, shaking his head. Dean was beside him in an instant, cupping his worried face in his hands and kissing his pursed lips.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dean soothed him. Jimmy’s eyes were wide.

“I’m not – think about it. There are huge chunks of my day I can’t account for; I have no idea what happens…” Jimmy mumbled.

“No, look. Jimmy. You just sleep,” Dean told him. He smoothed the back of Jimmy’s hands with his thumbs. “You curl up and sleep like a massive kitten, I promise.” Jimmy’s eyes slid closed. Dean wasn’t being entirely honest. Sometimes he seems half-conscious and his nose streams with blood. The lights flicker. All he can say is Dean’s name over and over again, but his blue eyes won’t focus on anything. Then they roll back into his head, and it’s Jimmy again, and Dean wipes the blood from his lips and cradles him, and everything is okay. But there was no way in hell he was going to tell that to Jimmy.

“I- I just… I don’t know. Something’s wrong.”

“No shit,” Dean replied, and kissed him briefly.

“Dean, listen. There’s something wrong with him, with Castiel. He’s… different. I. I think he’s hurt,” Jimmy’s voice was strained with desperation. “I think he’s afraid.”

“I’m afraid,” Dean admitted. Jimmy looked at the floor.

“Don’t say that,” Jimmy squeaked.

“Why? It’s the truth.”

Jimmy grimaced. “I don’t want it to be the truth.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Dean mumbled, looking down at the table. There were no birds singing outside, Dean realised. The only sound is the quiet buzz of kid’s TV drifting through the door to the living room, and the ever-present hum of the fridge. After a while, he couldn’t take it anymore, and the silence was broken by the scrape of chair legs on the ground. He started to tidy things away, lifting the bread board to tip the crumbs into the sink.

“No!” Jimmy cried out urgently. Dean almost dropped the board onto the ground. Jimmy got up slowly and crossed the room, taking the board from Dean’s hands and carrying it outside. Dean followed him. He tipped it up, scattering the crumbs over the patio, and stumbled to one of the garden chairs to sink into it. Dean took the bread board back from him, with a puzzled expression. Jimmy smiled. “For the birds,” he explained.

Dean thought about telling him that there are no birds singing, but he doesn’t. He looked over at the stable-cottage, and then back at Jimmy, who was watching the crumbs intently. He was smiling wistfully, and in the sunlight he somehow didn’t look as exhausted as he had inside. Dean could kid himself that it was just the sun that washed out all the colour from his cheeks, and it smoothed out the shadows around his eyes perfectly. The light caught in his irises and made them less blue and almost white, apart from a ring of sapphire around the edge. A breeze ruffled his hair. He looked the way that Jimmy only looked in dreams these days, as though he might get up soon and call Cassie to make lemonade in the kitchen whilst Dean worked on the house.

“Jimmy?” Dean called out to him to check that he was real. He lifted his chin, but his gaze didn’t leave the crumbs. Dean found himself crippled by the thought that he wouldn’t ever lift his head, wouldn’t ever look him in the eye again.

“Shh,” Jimmy urged. Dean’s gaze flicked down. A blue bird hopped through the crumbs, picking up several as he went, his little domed head tilting this way and that. Dean dared not move or even breathe for fear of scaring it away. After a minute or two of scavenging, and a flutter of wings, the bird was gone. Jimmy was smiling. Dean took a deep breath.

“I love you,” he told him. Jimmy tilted his head, his smile widening crookedly.

“I love you too, Dean,” Jimmy replied.

Dean wanted to kiss him, but he didn’t. He was still frozen like he was trying not to scare away the blue bird. Jimmy’s eyes slid shut. Dean looked at the sky.


	13. Overlapping Lines

Dean had forgotten how quiet it was in the house when the kids weren’t there. It was the first day of the semester. That morning he’d dropped Cassie of to his very first day in 1st grade, and stood next to Lily and Sam like he was the third parent. He’d kept coming back to the door to wave at them again and again. It’d made Dean laugh so much his eyes were watering. That, and it was fairly emotional to see him looking so grown up. Sam had looked a little teary as well, and it’d been hard to get him to move from his spot at the gate and get him to go to work. Without the kids tearing round and the quiet hum of Jess’s music radiating from her bedroom down through the floorboards into the kitchen, it was painfully quiet in the house.

Jimmy was curled asleep on the couch when Dean had got back. He didn’t want to disturb him, so he left him dozing there and went out into the garden to work on the stable instead. He was laying the last of the tiles, and glaring triumphantly at the on-coming clouds as he did so. The cottage was going to be water tight before the sons of bitches would rain on it. Five minutes later, he fixed the final tile into place and sure enough, before he’d finished gathering his tools, he felt a splash of rain on his neck. Laughing, he ran back to the house.

The rain was coming down in sheets, it seemed like, hitting the kitchen window with wild lashing force that made Dean smile and shiver. He started some coffee brewing in the hopes that the smell might rouse Jimmy. He was reaching up to get the mugs when he noticed Jimmy was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, frowning. He jumped, but Jimmy didn’t react.

“Hey, you want coffee?” Dean asked him with a grin. Jimmy said nothing, only continued to frown and stand impossibly still in the doorway. “I thought the smell of this beautiful stuff might wake you up,” Dean observed triumphantly. Jimmy still said nothing. Dean turned around to frown right back at him, and then Jimmy tilted his head to one side and Dean understood. He dropped his mug.

“Dean?” said Castiel.

“Fuck,” Dean replied. Cas took a step but wavered and reached out to grab the doorframe before he fell.

“Forgive me,” he said and sank to the floor. His nose dripped blood onto his knees. He was shaking. The longer Dean looked at him, the worse off he appeared. His lip split, and added to the rapidly expanding Jackson Pollock he was creating on the kitchen floor. Dean couldn’t seem to move. “I will not kill Dean Winchester,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No! I will not.”

“What?” Dean asked him. Cas didn’t seem to be able to see him anymore. He took a step towards him but he shrank away.

“No! Please, please,” Cas sobbed.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” Dean told him, panicked. At the sound of his voice Cas’ face fell. He was looking around desperately.

“Dean! Dean, no, why are you here? You should not be here!” Cas was panicked, his head searching from side to side. Dean grabbed one of his flailing hands.

“I’m right here,” Dean assured him.

“How dare you use his voice, treacherous beast,” Cas yelled, but his voice was cracked. “Please, no. I can’t. Don’t hurt me, please, no,” Cas whimpered.

“I’m not, I wouldn’t!” Dean swore, clutching Cas’ fingers. He screeched.

“Oh God! Father, save me!” he wailed.

“Cas! You’re alright! I’m right here!” Dean shouted, dropping his hands to grab his shoulders. The lights in the kitchen flickered. Cas went limp under Dean’s hands. “Cas?” he said desperately. “Cas!”

“Dean?”

Dean fell back from him. It was Jimmy staring up at him now. He was frowning over at Dean from where he was slumped in the doorway. A thick glut of blood slipped from his nose that glistened burgundy like a dark cherry where it fell on Jimmy’s shirt.

“Fucking hell,” Dean muttered putting his face in his hands. He was shaking uncontrollably, entirely unable to find whatever switches in his head that would allow him to stop.

“Dean, what’s happened? Why… why am I on the floor?” Jimmy sounded tired and confused. “Oh, my head,” he groaned. When Dean peered up at him, he was clutching a fistful of his hair. He was still covered in blood, but otherwise, Cas’ injuries had vanished. “Dean?” Jimmy asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dean laughed dryly, still shaking. “Not quite.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened. “Oh.” Dean watched Jimmy take in the scene; the broken mug on the floor, the blood all over his jeans and smeared around him. Cas had been disorientated like Jimmy had warned, although not frightened; _terrified_. What had he done in exchange for locking all the supernaturals out of earth? He’d called Dean a ‘treacherous beast’. “Dean?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah?”

“He’s hurt really bad, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” There didn’t seem for there to be much else he could say, given how the only thing his mind seemed to be able to do was keep the image of Cas screaming on the ground fixed behind his eyes. He shook his head from side to side as though the thought might fall out of his ears.

Dean got to his feet, finally having stopped shaking enough to do so, and pulled Jimmy up onto his, only to steer him over to a chair and sit him in it. He gently wiped away the blood from his stubble with a tea towel, trying not to think of split lips and eyebrows, eyes swollen and unseeing. He kissed each inch of Jimmy’s face that he cleaned. Jimmy didn’t say anything, or move in response to any of Dean’s kisses. When he was satisfied that he’d got all the blood from Jimmy’s face that was possible with the tools at hand, he swept up the mug and put the broken pieces in an empty cereal box. He looked at the splattered blood but decided it could wait, and turned back to Jimmy.

“Alright. Come with me,” he urged, extending his hand. Jimmy smiled, and took it, allowing himself to be pulled upright. Dean tried but couldn’t get himself to smile back at him, so he just clung on to Jimmy’s hand and led him up the stairs and into the bathroom. He closed the toilet seat and sat him on it. He kissed his forehead, pressing his lips there for a long time. The smell of blueberries from Jimmy’s hair was mixed with the metallic tang of blood and it made Dean feel sick.

He turned away without meeting Jimmy’s gaze an

“Dean?” Jimmy asked.

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m scared,” he admitted. Dean started the hot tap running. He could hear the groan of protest that the boiler made all the way from the kitchen. He swirled his hand in the inch of water that was gathering, and poured a healthy amount of the kid’s bubble bath in right under the tap. Froth started foaming instantly.

He turned back to Jimmy, sitting there, all small and fragile. He kissed his forehead again, and the tip of his nose, and his lips. Jimmy didn’t kiss him back, but he didn’t pull away either. Dean undid the buttons of his shirt and slipped it over his shoulders, all the while, Jimmy watched with wide blue eyes, waiting. Dean took off his own shirt too. Dean kissed the scars on Jimmy’s chest, the ones that Cas had put there, and as he worked his way down, he noticed something like a bruise near Jimmy’s hip. He frowned at it and leaned closer. It was Cas’ tattoo, enochian lettering in black in his skin. It was only grey on Jimmy’s, but it had never been there before. Dean smoothed it with his hands.

“He’s scared too, isn’t he?” Jimmy asked. He took Dean’s chin in his hand and angled his face back up at him. Jimmy smiled.

“Not for the same reasons, I don’t think,” Dean sighed. Jimmy released his face.

“I...I think he’s been in hell,” Jimmy said very quietly, as though that might make the words easier to hear. Fifteen years would make it eighteen hundred years in hell. Dean took a deep breath.

“Let’s not,” he managed. He leaned his head onto Jimmy’s knee.

“Okay,” Jimmy agreed. Dean didn’t want to think about what Castiel slipping through for long enough to establish some kind of conversation. He didn’t want to think about Castiel on the floor, about the injuries that appeared across his body before Dean’s eyes. He didn’t want to think about what that meant for Jimmy. He didn’t want to think.

He pressed his lips against Jimmy’s with sudden force. He felt Jimmy’s hands push gently on his chest in protest at first, but seconds later they were around his back, pulling him closer, tighter, further in. Jimmy was kissing him back with frightening conviction. He was the most awake he’d been in weeks. The fear that had been keeping Dean from kissing Jimmy like this for so long was driving him now, and he was unbuttoning his bloody jeans and sliding them off as Jimmy twisted to allow them to be removed.

“Fuck me,” Jimmy whispered, his eyes frantic and desperate, his hands on Dean’s ass with fingers digging hard into his flesh. “I need you,” he breathed. Dean whined, the words all he needed to strip off the rest of his own clothes and yank Jimmy’s legs around his waist to lift him up and carry him from the bathroom and across the hall. Dean fell backwards on his bed so that Jimmy was suspended over him as they kissed. He could taste the copper and salt on Jimmy’s lips but he didn’t care about the blood he was covered in, just the blue of his eyes and the little desperate whines of need that were so entirely _Jimmy_.

Jimmy’s arms were shaking; he was struggling to hold his own weight and the extra that Dean was putting on him as he wound his fingers into his hair. Dean moved them both so it was Jimmy pinned against the mattress instead. Usually Jimmy would have been embarrassed but he only seemed urgent now, his hands grasping at Dean’s cock and pumping up and down furiously. He was not tender and loving, he was angry and in it burned. It was all wrong but Dean couldn’t resist him, not when he was like this.

Jimmy moved beneath him so he was on his front again, and arced his back so it pressed against Dean’s stomach, but Dean gasped and pushed him back down again. “What?” Jimmy growled in frustration, but Dean couldn’t speak. Jimmy’s back was covered with long wide scars, hundreds of them, layered over and over each other. When the light hit his skin, there seemed to be move of them. With shaking hands, Dean traced the length of one of them. “Dean?” Jimmy demanded. Dean rolled back from over him, sat on his heels between Jimmy’s knees.

He was split between anger strong than any he’d ever felt, and sadness that was suffocating. Both were too powerful for words so he just sat there, his throat making strange twisted noises that eventually made Jimmy move to face him. Jimmy was livid, Dean saw it, but when he noticed that Dean was incapable of saying anything at all, his features softened a little.

They’d hurt him, _flayed him._ Castiel. _Dean’s_ Castiel. He was not theirs to flay.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Dean gasped. Jimmy narrowed his eyes at him.

“Knew what?”

“You knew where he was the whole time, and you didn’t say anything,” Dean said. Jimmy looked away, at some fixed point in the corner of the room. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Dean stared at the almost-tattoo on his hip.

“I had an idea, but I didn’t know for sure,” Jimmy admitted. He took a deep breath, and Dean found himself copying him. His chest hurt like he’d almost drowned and needed to cough out all the water from his lungs. He wanted to scream and curl up on the ground and burn the world. “It didn’t matter, I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Dean glared at him. “It matters,” he growled. Jimmy’s gaze snapped back to Dean’s face for a second then he resumed glaring into the distance.

“I couldn’t get to him, I couldn’t even speak to him. I’ve been trying to live my life for fifteen years with him screaming in the back of my head. You have no idea what that’s like,” Jimmy hissed back. Dean looked down at his hands in fists against his thighs. “It’s a punishment. I’d been in heaven, in paradise, and he ripped me out of there to… I don’t know. Stopper the flow.”

“What do you mean, ‘stopper the flow’? What are you talking about?” Dean snapped. Jimmy’s eyes widened in surprise, as though he thought it should be obvious. Dean frowned at him, maintaining that it wasn’t fucking obvious at all.

“Marcus always said that there had to be a reason he brought me back. I’d _earned_ paradise, Dean. I gave him _everything_ ,” Jimmy shook his head. Dean swallowed, remembering Castiel’s words to him the night they’d met, ‘ _you don’t think you deserve to be saved’_. Had he said the reverse to Jimmy? The thought twisted in his stomach, winding around those of Cas in pain, Cas in hell, Jimmy dead and gone. They writhed inside him like snakes. The old hole in his chest felt like it was bleeding again.

“I don’t think Cas would do something like that unless he needed to,” Dean whispered breathlessly, and realised he believed what he was saying with so much conviction his voice shook. Jimmy nodded.

“He was never cruel. At times naïve, maybe, but not thoughtless. The decisions he made were always made so because he thought them the right ones at the time,” Jimmy explained. Dean was unable to stop himself picturing Cas as he’d filled Jimmy so full with souls that he’d almost burst. Jimmy smiled. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he reminded him, as though he’d read his mind.

“You talk like you knew him or something. I thought you were switched off the whole time.”

Jimmy tilted his head in that oh-so-Castiel way, and Dean sighed. The lines between them were blurred, and blurring more and more. He’d been a fool to try and separate them as he had been, hold them as distinct. Jimmy was Jimmy, and Cas was Cas, but they were also each other. It made Dean’s head hurt to think of it. Old questions bubbled to the surface, like who the head tilt came from, but now they came with answers. Both. It was both of them. They were hard lines _and_ soft ones, angel and human, Jimmy and Cas.

“I was in the back of his mind as he’s now in the back of mine,” Jimmy explained. He frowned. “He didn’t like it at first, tried to shut me out, but eventually we found a balance. I suppose the same happened between us when I first woke up, only it was me trying to shut him out that time.” Dean knew the feeling. He ran his hand over the scars in Jimmy’s chest and clutched the faded slash marks in his forearm with the other.

“That night, when I called you, you said you were amazed I’d kept your number,” Jimmy smiled fondly at him. “I hadn’t. He remembered it, and gave it to me in his own way.” Dean ignored Jimmy’s shudder because that seemed like another can of worms and he had enough of them on his hands already. “When he’s afraid, he calls your name.”

Dean stiffened. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Why not?” Jimmy sighed. “You must know.”

Dean thought about shaking him. He couldn’t stand the cryptic remarks. If he was supposed to know why didn’t Jimmy just say whatever it was out-loud already? He tried to shove those feelings into a little box in the corner of his mind but it seemed to be bursting with other things he was trying not to think about, and as soon as his thoughts went near it they leapt out towards him, fangs bared. Castiel shouldn’t be afraid, he should never be afraid. How many years had he been screaming Dean’s name and not getting an answer? His prayers couldn’t have reached him in Hell, he didn’t think. Maybe he’d heard him through Jimmy. Except that he hadn’t talking to Jimmy about Cas at all, in fact he’d been avoiding doing just that. Granted he hadn’t exactly been aware of Cas’ presence in the back of Jimmy’s mind, but would he have changed his behaviour if he had? He didn’t know. He didn’t feel like he knew anything anymore.

Jimmy’s hands found Dean’s and clutched them tight. “Dean, he-”

“Don’t,” Dean wheezed, and buried his face into Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy responded by kissing Dean’s neck hungrily until he shoved him away. “I’m sorry,” Dean mumbled in reply to Jimmy’s hurt eyes. “I can’t. Not right now.”

“Alright,” Jimmy sighed. “I’m really thirsty.”

Dean smiled gratefully him. Dean pulled his jeans back on, and went back into the kitchen to get him something to drink.

It was still raining with a vengeance. Dean squinted to try and see the garden properly through the thick water cascading down the window, but it was like trying to see through egg whites. He filled a glass of water for Jimmy, but something outside caught his eye. It was the blurred shape of something small and pale and moving very fast. He ran to the back door, but whatever it had been was already gone. He glowered into the rain for a while. It made the world look like it had bad cable reception, fuzzy and indistinct. The sound of it against the ground was like a dead channel, too. The sky rumbled, but they were too far from the middle of the storm for Dean to see any lightening.

He closed the door and went back inside. As he picked up Jimmy’s glass something dropped into it. He squinted, but the water was still clear. He looked up; the paint work on the ceiling looked like it was bubbling. A drop of water fell onto his cheek. “Shit!”

He ran headlong up the stairs and into the bathroom. The lino was under an inch of bubbley water that was pouring over the lip of the bath tub. He splashed through and shut off the water.

“Dean? What’s happened? Are you alright?” Jimmy asked, having rushed to the door. He slipped in the spill and landed on his ass in the middle of the floor, still completely naked. “Ah!” he yelped. The bubbles were everywhere, like snow floating on the surface of a lake. In his fall, Jimmy had scooped up some of them with his feet and they were floating gently through the air. Dean’s jeans were soaked from the small wave Jimmy had created when he slid. Jimmy looked preposterous, his eyes wide and his mouth open. A swathe of bubbles settled on top of his head. Dean couldn’t help himself; he was in hysterics. He was laughing so hard he doubled over.

Jimmy was shocked and indignant for moment, but then he was laughing along with him. The water and the bubbled were washing the blood from his skin. It swirled in the water around him. Both of them jumped as the sky outside rumbled again, and there was a flash of lightening that seemed almost simultaneous, but then they were laughing at each other for that, too.

The phone rang downstairs, an old fashioned ‘bring’ that took Dean back to his childhood whenever he heard it. He frowned; puzzled. Hardly anyone ever rang the house, because both Sam and Lily knew he spent so much outside he probably wouldn’t hear the ringing. Jimmy smiled when Dean ruffled his hair as he left the bathroom and stumbled down back into the kitchen. His jeans were dripping everywhere.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Hey, Dean, it’s Lily,” she sounded breathless.

“Hey, everything alright?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell phone for ages, but it keeps going right to answer phone. It must be this bastard storm,” she growled. Something had really upset her, that much was clear.

“What’s wrong?” Dean demanded.

“It’s Castiel!” she hissed. Dean’s heart pounded for a moment until he realised she meant Cassie, and not Cas.

“What about him?”

“I got a call from the school,” she was panting, it sounded like. “He’s gone.”

He waited for her to say something else. She didn’t.

“Gone?” Dean repeated, as though he could have misheard.


	14. Fingerpainting

_Last December_

_Jimmy sat alone in the kitchen. The house was huge and empty without Marcus in it. There was music that should have been playing, quiet laughter missing from the stairs, footsteps absent from the floorboards. It was empty. It had been empty for weeks, Jimmy knew, but it seemed emptier now. He didn’t know where to go, what to do with himself. There was washing up from breakfast, but it felt like it had come from another universe. Everything was different knowing Marcus was really gone._

_Jimmy didn’t want to go anywhere, do anything at all. He sat and looked at the scars in his arms for a long time, thinking about how it had felt to cut them in and watch the blood pour onto the tiles around him. The silence made the screaming in the back of his head get louder. It couldn’t really be any quieter, he knew that rationally such a thing was not possible. It was an illusion projected by the sickening emptiness inside of him. Castiel’s voice echoed inside of him, he was so hollow._

_He tried to remember that the images behind his eyes were really just dreams the way that Marcus had said they were. The impossible, massive form of Castiel strained against the plane it had been forced into. His existence in hell was not supposed to be sustainable. Angels were just not_ meant _for that place, the same way they were not meant for Earth or purgatory, only Hell had no vessels for them to wrap themselves in as a shield, both for themselves and those around. Jimmy knew that in the beginning it had been of some resolve to Castiel that it hurt the demons to be anywhere near him, but he was long since caring. His scattered shrieks and cries were broken and meaningless, only a few desperate words would ever make it out coherently._

_Jimmy poured the dregs of his bottle of wine into his glass and lapped them from the sides. Tomorrow he was supposed to go and talk to someone about cremating Marcus. He had to think about telling people, organising flowers, memorials, stupid little things. They’d asked him what suit he’d want to wear, and he’d had to run out of the room and throw up. He didn’t want to think about the suit they’d burn him in, his Marcus. How was a pile of ashes supposed to hold Jimmy together? He needed words, reminders, long conversations in the dark. “He’s gone, Jimmy. They’re just dreams. It’s alright.” Words he knew he’d never hear again._

_Castiel was louder, now. The loudest he’d been for months. He’d been so quiet for years, just a few murmurs and horrible, vivid dreams where he forced Jimmy to share his pain. But mostly he’d been quiet, and Jimmy had been able to shut him out with a combination of narcotics, exercise and loud music. It had been like having his own head again, not that his head was a particularly pleasant place to be even when he was alone in it. Nightmares about his daughter, about getting stabbed and burst and splitting at the seams like an over-stuffed pillow; these were all preferable to dreams about Castiel._

_That was just it, though; they were not just dreams. No matter what Marcus said or how much Jimmy tried to believe him, he knew they couldn’t be. He couldn’t dream Hell, and he couldn’t dream the things that Castiel remembered. Jimmy shuddered and went to take another gulp of wine, but found that his glass was empty. With a sigh, he got to his feet and went to the back door of the house to stare at the lights under the pool. He wished Marcus hadn’t gone. He wished he wasn’t here. He wanted with all his heart to jump into the water and sink to the bottom, but found himself incapable of moving an inch._

_He wondered if Castiel would let him die this time, because that’s what had stopped it happening all the other times, wasn’t it? First time the rope snapped, and it wasn’t that kind of rope. Second time, well. That was how he’d met Marcus. And subsequent attempts had always ended with Marcus driving him to the hospital or patching him up. Every time, Castiel got louder, as though he was getting a little bit closer. Maybe he was getting weaker._

_Was that bad? Jimmy squirmed uncomfortably on the floor. The pain, the losses, the things he had been trying to live his life after weren’t his to move on from. “Do you know what that’s like? Living with pain that’s not yours?” he said out-loud as though he thought Castiel would hear him. “These aren’t my burdens to carry. It’s not fair.” He sniffed huffily. He sounded like a spoilt child. He curled his knees to his chest and pressed his eyes against them._

_The next thing he knew, he was upstairs in the studio, and the sun was much higher in the sky than it should have been._

_It was not the first time that this had happened. Jimmy gulped. He didn’t want to open his eyes. The last time this had happened felt like the beginning of the end, now, as he looked back on it. He remembered it like it was yesterday; it had been late afternoon, and Mozart drifted down the stairwell along with summery sunshine. Jimmy had been painting the rooftops of Rome, as he could see them from the window of his second floor studio. He watched as birds hopped happily on his windowsill, pecking at the crumbs from the baguette he’d had for lunch. He could just make out their manic chirps over the piano._

_After a few moments, all three sparrows had flown away at once. Jimmy had wandered towards the window, but there were still crumbs left. He had leaned right out to peer down into the yard way beneath him. The street was empty apart from Benny, the gardener, who was tending to the patio with his grey-overall-covered ass pointing up at the sky._

_“Jimmy?” Marcus had called. He was in the doorway. Jimmy hadn’t noticed the music had stopped. “You alright?” his voice sounded confused and genuinely concerned, and that had puzzled Jimmy._

_“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jimmy replied. Marcus pursed his lips._

_“I thought I just heart you shout-” Marcus cuts himself off, frowning at Jimmy. “Is that paint on your face?” he had asked, stepping a little closer._

_“Probably,” Jimmy had answered with a shrug. Marcus had been acting strangely for days. It was starting to make Jimmy’s skin crawl. He reached out to take Marcus’s hand but he flinched it away. “What?”_

_“It’s nothing,” Marcus had mumbled._

_Jimmy had looked out of the window. He remembered how frustrated he’d been with Marcus, seething at how unreasonable it was of him to act like this at that point in time. He’d actually thought Marcus was going to leave him, right after they’d finished renovating the old house Jimmy had so desperately not wanted to buy, even fitting the pool he hadn’t wanted because it ate up what would have been a decent sized garden that was the only thing he really liked about the house before they finished it. How could Marcus become so cold and distant then, when it must have been so obvious that something was happening to Jimmy?_

_Jimmy could feel himself crying, but the tears on his cheeks felt far away. If he’d know what Marcus had really been hiding, then maybe things would have been different. It was useless to think about that now. He was so alone in the house, and it had happened again; he’d lost hours and woken up to find himself curled on the studio floor. It was Castiel, he was sure of it. He was so close, close enough to steal Jimmy’s time._

_Jimmy rubbed his face and his fingers came away red, just like they had last time._

_“There’s no red on your painting,” Marcus had pointed out._

_“Why would there be?”_

_“The paint on your face is red,” he stated. Jimmy had wiped his hand across his cheek._

_“Oh fuck,” he groaned._

_It wasn’t paint, it was blood._

_“It’s just my nose, its fine.” Jimmy had grunted, hurrying into the bathroom. He grabbed one of the towels folded neatly by the sink and pressed it to his face. He jumped when he saw one of his hands; it was mottled black and grey. The city scape had been shades of blue and orange; no grey or black at all. He went to the sink and scrubbed at them with a sponge. It washed away easy enough. His fingers were red up to the knuckles, now. He swallowed and got to his feet to wash the blood off his hands. He tried not to look at the floor._

_“Jimmy, I thought you said this wasn’t going to happen anymore,” Marcus had said darkly._

_“What? It’s just a nosebleed – it’s hardly anything serious,” Jimmy complained, irritated by Marcus’ melodrama. He took the towel away from his face. “It’s stopped now, anyway,” he shouted to him. Marcus came and stood in the bathroom doorway._

_“You said the dreams had stopped.”_

_“They have,” Jimmy had insisted. It was a lie. Marcus sighed and covered his face with his hands. “What the hell are you being like this for? You’ve been off with me for the whole week! What did I do?” Jimmy snapped._

_“Jimmy, I can’t live like this,” Marcus had whispered. Jimmy had felt like his blood instantly thickened. It made his heart pound and his head ache._

_“What?” he asked brokenly._

_“You were supposed to stop lying to me!” Marcus had yelled._

_“Lying? What are you talking about?” Jimmy had spluttered. Of course he was lying. That’d what Marcus had wanted, wasn’t it? Pretend like they’re just dreams, act like things are getting better. So of course he’d lied. He had to lie._

_“You’re having the dreams again!”_

_“No, I’m not!” Jimmy insisted. Marcus looked hurt. “I’m fine.”_

_“You’re painting that bullshit again, and you said you’d stop!” Marcus had hissed._

_“What on earth do you mean? It’s just the roof tops!”_

_Marcus’ hazel eyes had been wide enough they had looked on the verge of falling out. Jimmy had to fight the urge to throw something heavy at him to snap him out of whatever crazy state he’d got himself into. For so long Jimmy had been forced to rely on Marcus to provide a calm, steady constant in his life; he was supposed to be different, he was supposed to understand. He hadn’t really understood, had he? He was never going to help again. Never._

_“You don’t know, do you?” Marcus had said, eventually. Jimmy had shaken his head. “Come here,”_

_The painting was there, as Jimmy had painted it; a blotchy reproduction of the view from his chair. Marcus was staring at the ceiling. Jimmy had tilted his head back slowly. There were flames painted in streaks of red and orange and yellow, edged with black. They were swallowing a figure in the centre who was charred completely black apart from his eyes, bright blue and staring down at them on the floor. Jimmy gasped. “I… I didn’t paint this,” he had said, shaking his head. “I didn’t do this!” he had shouted._

_It was familiar now, the figure of Castiel on fire. If he tried really hard Jimmy could force himself to remember standing on the very tips of his toes to paint it there. He tried really hard now, leaning over the sink, to think of the blood on his fingers. Pain twinged on his back, and Castiel screamed. He remembered digging his fingers into his skin, drawing symbols on the ground._

_Jimmy looked at the floor in the studio. There were the stains left over from the first time. With He edged backwards step by step. Each shuffle revealed another letter rubbed into the carpet with three fingers. Jimmy looked at his hands; there were crescent shaped scabs in his palms. Experimentally, he curled his hands into fists. The marks were from his fingernails, just like they had been before. The old marks were dirty and brown in the carpet, “help me”, they said._

_The new marks were red. Almost too red, it seemed to Jimmy. They weren’t letters, this time, but numbers, and given that it stared with ‘07’ he was guessing a cell phone number.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the numerous missed calls and texts that brought apologies for Marcus’ death. He punched the numbers into his phone._

_He clutched it to his ear, waiting. The dial tone seemed to ring forever. He walked over to the window. In the fading light, the city was beginning to sparkle. It was Christmas Eve. He’d almost forgotten. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. It wasn’t Christmas Eve for him._

_Finally, someone answered his call. He waited in silence, with bated breaths._

_“Hello?” said a familiar deep and husky voice, one he hadn’t heard outloud for years. He almost collapsed at the sound of it, instead only falling forward slowly so his forehead rested against the cold window pane. His breaths made foggy streaks in across the glass, obscuring the lights around him._

_“Dean?” he asked in disbelief._ Oh Castiel, _Jimmy thought_ , you’ve hung onto him for so long. _There was a sound like a clatter and Jimmy was almost certain that Dean had just dropped the phone on the other end of the line. “Um, hello? Dean?”_

_“C-Cas?” Dean finally replied._

_Jimmy’s heart skipped a beat._ Well, would you look at that _, he marvelled._ He’s been holding on to you too.


	15. Keep Your Friends Close

Sam had been sat with his head between his knees for a very long time.

“I just don’t understand how they could _not_ notice, you know?” Lily hissed, for millionth time. She paced back and forth across the living room. She’d been bordering on hysterics for almost an hour. “I mean, they get paid to watch the damn kids, right? So what the hell are they doing? They’re in the 1 st grade, surely there isn’t a lot of marking for them to get bogged down in, particularly on the first day of the semester!” she repeated.

Dean sat in the living room with Jimmy, who was asleep with his head resting on his folded arms, leaning on the table. He stroked a stray hair back off his face, and sighed.

“I mean, what if something has _got_ him?”

“Lily,” Sam groaned.

“Whatever twisted thing killed the Robertson’s dog could have got him. He’s only small, Sam! What if he’s been _eaten_?” she gasped.

“Stop it! For god’s sake, would you just stop for a minute! Please!” Sam shouted. Dean watched him glaring at her, having lifted his head finally. His face was blotchy and his eyes red and narrowed. Lily froze under them for a while, then resumed her pacing. She didn’t start up talking again, though. After another minute, Sam slowly lowered his head back into place. His cell phone was on the floor between his feet. They’d been waiting for a call to say that he was safe for hours. At least, they’d been pretending that’s what they were waiting for. In reality, that call was one they only had the tiniest amount of hope for. Dean was convinced that the one they’d get would be more grisly, but he was trying to pretend that he didn’t think that.

The rain still hadn’t let up, the storm outside only seeming to worsen. Dean glanced at the clock and decided that he may as well listen to the news on the little radio, just to fill the void that Lily’s shouting had been covering up for so long before. They were talking about freak storms. Jimmy stirred at the sound.

“…clear skies for the rest of the week! However, Badger, Minnesota is in for a beating tonight! Freak storms have been raging over the town for hours. Satellite pictures show a sudden accumulation of clouds over the town this afternoon. This weather must be a nasty shock after the beautiful sunshine the folks in Badger have been experiencing over the few weeks, mustn’t it Greg?”

“Ah, yes it must do Lucy! Thank you for that, this is Rock Radio, and now for a blast from the past! It’s Meatloaf with ‘Bat Out of Hell’, all the way from 1979,” the announcer, Greg, said. The song started playing.

“Dean!” Jimmy gasped.

“What?” Dean asked him, frowning.

“Weren’t you listening to that radio show it-” he broke off to wince. “Didn’t those weather forecasts sound familiar?” he asked, desperately, eyes crinkled in pain. Dean kissed his forehead so he didn’t have to look at his suffering.

Yes. Yes they did. Freak storms? Clear skies everywhere? Sudden accumulation of clouds out of nowhere? This was not nature’s doing. This was above nature’s power to do. Or below. Either way, it was resoundingly supernatural.

“Castiel!” Jimmy yelped. Lily and Sam’s heads whipped round at the name, but for a different reason than why Dean’s hands moved to cup Jimmy’s face gently but firmly. “He- he says,” Jimmy grimaced. “It’s happening!” he gasped. “Oh fuck, oh god, _Dean!”_ Jimmy jumped back and got to his feet, pushing his chair back from the table. “It’s all connecting and I – ah oh _god my head_ – I don’t understand how but, it’s all the same.”

He was walking around with small confused steps, like he was lost, or on the verge of a panic attack.

“What’s going on?” Lily demanded. “What’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shook his head. He wanted to grab hold of Jimmy and force him to stop, but he wasn’t sure it would work. Jimmy raked his hands through his hair again and again and went to stand in the window, as the rain pummelled into it. Dean watched the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, it increased by the second. Red blossoms appeared on the back of Jimmy’s shirt like rose buds, their petals slowly unfurling, until some of them were touching.

Time slowed down, and Dean felt like he was in one of those dreams where you desperately need to run but your legs won’t move fast enough as though you’re trying to wade through tar. Jimmy yelped, his hands dropping abruptly from his head to the cabinets in front of him as a red slash split across his back from his shoulder blade to his hip. “No!” Dean yelled, but he could only walk slowly towards him as he whimpered.

By the time he reached him Jimmy’ shirt was sticking to his skin. 

“Jimmy, I don’t know what to do, tell me what to do,” Dean begged him, but Jimmy only clung onto the sideboard, hyperventilating and struggling to stay on his feet.

“I can see them, all of them.  Hundreds and hundred,” he said, his voice absent and dazed, words slipping out between gulps of air. “It took so much to break him down, it took so many to take him. They can see me, Castiel. They’re looking right at me!” he gasped.

“They can’t see you,” Dean insisted, grabbing Jimmy’s shoulder and yanking him around to face him, but all this did was make him crumple forwards into Dean’s chest. He caught him, trying desperately to keep him upright, but his torso was slick with blood and he was too hot, so hot Dean cried out and jumped back reflexively. He looked down at his hands, half expecting them to have burnt, but they were only coated in Jimmy’s blood.

It had been a long time since Dean had seen this much blood. Sure, there had been a lot that afternoon and he was beginning to get used to Jimmy’s nosebleeds, but Cas was slick with it, Jimmy’s shirt soaked right through and his jeans almost matching. How could he hold this amount of blood in his body? He seemed far too small for it all to fit. Dean’s arms were coated in it to the elbows, like he was wearing elbow length burgundy gloves. The smell of it, coppery and tangy, almost like citrus. It felt as though he should be screaming, throwing up at the sight of it all, but he was transfixed.

Jimmy was on the ground, scrabbling backwards into the corner of the kitchen, his hands leaving red trails, smears of blood on the floor and the cabinets. It ran from his nose and over his lips, into his open mouth as he gasped, gasped for air. “Dean!” he cried. “Hold on to me, don’t let them have me!” he yelped, then shrieked as though he’d just been stabbed. With a twist of his stomach Dean wondered if somewhere, he had been. Finally, he leapt forwards and knelt over him, wrapping him in his arms.

“I won’t let them have you!” Dean promised Jimmy as he gasped, gasped. Gasped. Gasped. Dean waited. Jimmy was still. He loosened his grip and Jimmy slumped lifelessly against the cabinet. His blue eyes stared into nothing. A tear that had gathered in the corner of his eye shook free and glided down his cheek, cleaning a trail through the blood to his chin. His skin was white underneath. “Jimmy?” Dean squeaked. He pressed his lips against Jimmy’s but they were slack. The blood overpowered the taste of his mouth. He didn't respond. “No, no. Jimmy, please,” Dean begged.

Nothing happened. Dean shook him.

“Jimmy, please. You have to wake up,” he pleaded. Jimmy’s head lolled uselessly against his shoulder, the dead mimic of him tilting his head. Dean shook him again. “No!” he yelled.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice came from somewhere behind him, distant, full of hurt. Dean growled and laid Jimmy flat on his back. He drew his hands together over Jimmy’s sternum, pounding them down rhythmically, forcing his heart to beat. Jimmy’s eyes continued to stare blindly at the ceiling. Dean tried to ignore the way his head jerked laxly with every compression to his chest. When he’d counted out thirty, he moved and breathed air into his lungs. Nothing. He went back to compressions. The extent of the world was the rapidly cooling blood under Dean’s hands, and the soft thud, thud and he tried desperately to make his heart beat again. More breaths. Back to compressions.

“Dean,” Sam said gently. There was a hand on Dean’s shoulder and he whipped his head around to face him. The ferocity of his expression made Sam grimace. “You need to stop.”

“Like hell I do,” Dean hissed and turned back to Jimmy. He lost himself in the rhythm of the compressions and breaths, compressions and breaths.

“Daddy?” Bobby’s voice, from the stairs.

“Sh, it’s okay. You need to go back to bed,” Dean heard Sam say.

“What’s wrong with Jimmy?” Bobby asked.

“He’s going to be fine!” Dean yelled, pulling back from Jimmy’s face. Dean’s mouth and chin was covered in Jimmy’s blood. Bobby looked horrified. Sam looked horribly, disgustingly sad and filled with pity. It burned Dean’s eyes. He could feel himself crying, but was utterly indifferent to it. He turned back to Jimmy.

His lips were purple in the places where Dean’s had cleaned away enough of the blood that they were visible. His eyes, so blue and wide, stared through Dean entirely. “Jimmy,” Dean whispered. “I love you,” he sobbed. He put his hands back on his chest, about to start compressions again, but the muscles in his arms felt like they’d turned into jelly and all that happened was he fell forwards until his forehead was resting on his knuckles. He could heart the absence of Jimmy’s pulse. It screamed at him. He’d barely registered the rain that was continuing to pelt against the window until that moment.

It seemed to grow louder and louder. The sky growled, a qhite flash of lightening bleaching the colour out of the room for half a second. Dean’s ears were ringing, and the ringing was growing louder and louder too, until it was unbearable. He buried his face into Jimmy’s still chest, trying t block it out to no avail.

“Dean? What was-” Sam began but was cut off by a deafening clap of thunder. The light above them glowed brighter, brighter and exploded, showering Dean’s head with tiny shards of glass and a spray of sparks. Dean started to lift his head but then before he knew what was happening it was smacking into the table and he was on the other side of the room than he had been a moment earlier. It was completely dark; it seemed the entire house’s circuits had been blown. Bobby was crying. As a flash of lightening filled the room with light again, Dean saw Jimmy’s body convulse as though he’d just had an electric shock.

Dean scrambled to his feet. In another flash, Jimmy’s body went rigid. He sat bolt upright with a shuddering gasp that sounded painful but was like music to Dean’s ears as he got to his side. Jimmy grabbed fistfuls of Dean’s t-shirt as soon as he was there, yanking him to within an inch from his face with surprising force. “Save him,” Jimmy sighed. His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell back to the ground.

Dean stayed frozen for a few moments, then pressed his ear to Jimmy’s chest. His heart was pounding, much faster than it ought to, but definitely pounding.

“What the hell is going on?” Lily demanded.

“It’s Cas,” Dean managed to choke out. “It didn’t work.”

Dean gathered first aid supplies by the light on his phone screen as Sam went up to take Bobby back to bed and make sure Jessie was alright. Lily went down into the basement to check the fuse box, and emerged a few minutes later clutching a torch. “Guys,” she said, as Sam was beginning to come down the stairs, “you might want to come at see this.”

“What is it?” Sam asked for both of them. Dean still seemed incapable of speech.

“Just… go look, alright?” she fussed. Dean looked down at Jimmy’s hyperventilating form on the floor. “I’ll stay with him for a minute, just. Would you look?” she demanded. Her eyes were desperate and pleading.

Dean glanced at his brother. Sam nodded.

“Okay,” Dean croaked.

It wasn’t a basement, really. Not even Lily could stand upright under the house, but it was definitely something more than a crawlspace. All that was down there, though, was the fuse box, and the short staircase that led directly to it. At least, that was all that _should_ have been down there. The lights of his and Sam’s phones combined were still too dim to see properly, but Dean would have recognised that familiar crunch as he stepped from the last stair onto the ground. Sam directed his phone towards their feet, confirming their suspicions. The floor was covered in animal bones.

“Oh fuck,” Sam groaned. Dean stepped further into the space, wincing at the sound of more bones splintering under his shoes as he did so. He was doubled over because of the low ceiling, but that meant he could only look at the ground. He grimaced at the half-shattered skull of a deer, which had very obvious gnaw marks on its nasal passages. He advanced further and further, then he took a step that didn’t crunch. He redirected the light to where he’d just stepped; the concrete ground was clear. The bones had been swept out of the way; they were banked up against each other like they’d been swept aside.

Dean frowned and shone the light ahead. Lily wouldn’t have gone that far into the room; she hadn’t been down there long enough. There was something on the ground; it looked like it might  be an old rug. He moved closer. It wasn’t a rug. “Sam?” he called. “Get over here.”

There was a flurry of crunches and little hisses of discomfort as Sam hurried over to him. Standing side by side, they could see more of it. They were almost standing on a roughly drawn pentagram. There was another maybe three feet away from them, a triangle between them, surrounded by carefully written out symbols. The stumps of homemade candles were withering at each corner of the circle. There were more of those arranged in a ring around a circle drawn out of yet more of the symbols, and in it’s centre lay more bones. Only these bones weren’t gnawed clean or even dismembered. They were all there, all together. There was still grey flesh covering them, even a dusty set of blue overalls. They weren’t animal bones, either. They were a man. And there was a knife in his chest.

“Holy shit,” Sam gasped. Dean stepped closer to the body, and a gust of wind that sounded like a hiss of discontent rushed around the room and made him shiver. The dead mean’s mouth was open. His yellowing teeth were sticking out of shrivelled gums. He’d been dead for a few months at least.

Sam worked his way around the circle as Dean squinted at the knife in the guy’s chest. He frowned; he recognised it as one that had gone missing almost a year before from the kitchen. The guy’s overalls were open, and in the tattered, paper-like remains of his skin, it was clear he’d had some kind of symbol drawn into his chest. It was not dissimilar to the one that Jimmy had scarred into his own.

“Oh my god, Dean,” Sam gasped. Dean turned to see Sam, necessarily stooped, clutching something small in his hands. It took a moment from Dean to work out that it was a Spiderman rucksack. “It’s Cassie’s,” Sam explained.

Dean gasped and looked back at the body on the floor. Most overalls had embroidered name tags on the chest, right? He reached down and grabbed the fabric, yanking it over to examine it. A cloud of dust made him choke.

“Fuck,” he spat, dropping it as though it was on fire. “Oh fuck,” he gasped. He looked around at the symbols on the floor. The smeared black ink wasn’t ink at all. It was old, dry blood. But not as old as the body.

Sam was still clutching the rucksack.

“We need to get out of the house,” Dean growled.

“What?” Sam spluttered. He was holding the bag to his chest.

“I just read the guy’s nametag, and you’ll never guess who our buddy here is?” Dean growled. He could only just make out Sam’s puzzled expression. “Manny.”


	16. Vertigo

Sam leaned over the decaying body to confirm what Dean had said. After a sharp intake of breath, he too dropped the fabric and backed away.

“We can’t just up and leave,” Sam murmured.

“Well, we can’t just stay here, can we?” Dean snapped.

“It’s not just the two of us now, Dean. There’s Jimmy, and Lily, Bobby, Jess… and Cassie. What if Cassie comes back and we’re not here?” Sam asked. 

“That might not be such a bad thing,” Dean pointed out, gesturing at the backpack with the light on his phone. Sam grimaced. Dean illuminated the knife in Manny’s chest again. “That’s from the kitchen,” he explained.

“He’s my _son_ ,” Sam hissed. Another gust of icy wind wrapped around them, so strong and sudden Dean could have sworn it was visible. In the corner of the room, the fuse box spat and spluttered, and with a little burst of sparks the lamp at the bottom of the stairs flicked on, filling the room with pallid orange light. They could see just how many bones were down there then. They were much larger than those that had been inside the stables. There was the ribcage of a deer in the corner, its ribs making a small cage that held yet more bones.

As Dean peered closer at the piles, something slowly became apparent. Manny’s bones weren’t the only human ones down there. Sam groaned as he realised the same thing.

Dean’s phone started ringing, the opening of LED Zepplin’s ‘Ramble On’ echoing around the room. He took it out of his pocket and squinted at it. There was no number displayed, just ‘incoming call’.

“What?” Sam asked, frowning at what Dean was doing.

Dean answered the call. “Hello?” he asked. There was no response. The other end of the line was crackling and hissing, like the reception was really bad, but Dean had full signal. He could hear halves of words, too fuzzy and broken for him to even begin to decipher what was being said. “Hello?” he said again. The vague sounds continued for a moment the phone went dead in his hand. He took it from his ear. The screen was black. He tried to switch it back on to no avail. “Shit,” he groaned.

“What the hell was that?” Sam asked. Dean shook his head.

“Fuck know, but whatever it was just broke my phone,” he grumbled. He shoved it back in his pocket, hoping to be able to salvage it later. Without it, they only had Sam’s phone to illuminate the basement. Shadows of the littered bones were cast huge and vague on the walls, like a macabre puppet show. Sam shone the light back onto to Manny. “How the hell did this guy even get down here?” Dean groaned.

“I don’t know, but he’s completely dried out,” Sam edged round the body as he spoke. He seemed to be avoiding stepping over the circles of symbols, but it was dark and he was doubled over so occasionally his toes crossed over. Whenever they did, Dean could have sworn the foundations of the house _shivered_.

Dean shuffled uncomfortably, wincing at the sound of tiny bones splintering under his soles. Then there was a shallow splashed, and his eyes widened. He crouched down to touch the ground; it was moist under his fingers. He squinted at them but it was clear even in the relative darkness that it was just water on the ground. “There’s an opening somewhere,” he realised. “Shine your light on the walls.”

Sam did as Dean said, and they both leaned and squinted, avoiding moving their feet where they could because of the hollow, sickening crunches it elicited whenever they did so. “Dean! Here,” Sam whispered. He shuffled towards his brother, gritting his teeth as he ground the skeletons of several rodents into powder.

There was a dark circle on the wall, so black that for a moment Dean thought that it was drawn on with charcoal or something. As he got closer, however, he could see a sliver of the gun-metal grey sky outside and feel a scant spatter of raindrops on his skin like a salt-less ocean spray. The hole was too small for either Dean or Sam to have fit in it. As if he’d been thinking the same, Sam turned his phone back onto Manny for a moment. It was hard to judge, but it seemed like he’d have been able to squeeze down through it.

Sam shone the light back on the hole, and made a small strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a yelp. Dean spotted why instantly; Cassie’s little digger truck was embedded into the dirt around the hole’s mouth. Sam reach out and pried it free.

“Wait…” Dean mumbled. “That rucksack… he didn’t take it to school with him this morning did he?”

“N-no,” Sam replied, his voice wavering. “It’s b-been missing for m-m-months.” He clutched both it at the toy truck to his chest.

“We need to get out of here,” Dean suggested. Sam nodded earnestly and they started to pick their way back across the room. When they had almost reached the stairs, something by Dean’s foot went clattering across the ground, but it didn’t sound like bone, it sounded like _plastic._ Then, after a moment, there was a sequence of flashing lights.

“Now you know your ABC, won’t you come and sing with me…” the toy phone droned, it’s batteries almost run down.

“That was Cassie’s too,” Sam pointed out, needlessly. Dean grimaced and they headed for the stairs

When they re-emerged into the kitchen, Jess was waiting by the basement door. Her face was pale and her jaw set. It struck Dean how much she looked like a miniature version of Sam; the only real difference between how he’d looked at that age from her was his lack of long fire-orange waves and the fact that she’d mastered Sam’s old-soul concerned-gaze already. She looked gaunt in her Hello Kitty pyjamas. “He won’t wake up,” she said, addressing Dean. Her bottom lip trembled.

He kissed the top of her head and she sniffed. He didn’t look across the kitchen to where he knew Jimmy would still be prone on the floor. Now they were out of the damp dusty chill of what could only be described as the tomb underneath their house, Dean’s mind seemed determined to replay Jimmy’s death to him over and over. Jess’ words hadn’t helped avoid that end, though.

“We need to get him to a hospital,” Lily advised. He wasn’t dead then. Not yet, anyway. Dean was nodding and already reaching for the keys to their car. “Sam?” she asked, concerned. Sam was green. His expression and pallor reminded Dean of when he’d been hooked on demon blood, when Lilith was breaking the seals. The comparison was not a welcome one. It made his stomach churn. “Sam, baby, why- why are you holding Cassie’s rucksack?” she asked him brokenly.

Sam walked wordlessly to Lily and gathered her into his arms. He managed the entire length of the kitchen in just two gigantic Sasquatch strides. He was clinging to her tightly, his fingers winding into her hair. “Honey,” she said into his chest. Dean could see her straining to pull out of Sam’s grip but he didn’t seem capable of relinquishing here.

“Daddy?” Jess squeaked from beside Dean, with another doleful sniff.

“Manny is real,” Sam choked.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Lily snapped, straining against Sam’s arms harder than ever. He seemed determined not to release her. “Sam!”

“The bones, the things going missing from Cassie’s room, the marks all over his body… it was Manny. He’s real,” Sam explained.

“That’s ridiculous! Let go of me!” Lily hissed.

“ _He’s under the house_.”

“What? Sam, that’s preposterous! Get the hell off me and snap out of this! He’ll come back, Cassie will come back!” Lily insisted. She finally ducked out of Sam’s arms, but he just tightened them around his chest rather than letting them fall. Jess crept closer to Dean and forced her hand into his fist. “Dean, what the hell is going on?” Lily asked, whirling around to face him, livid.

Dean sighed and pulled Jess to face him. He tucked her under his arm and clapped his hands tightly over her eyes. She looked up at him, her green eyes swimming with tears. “It’s okay,” he mouthed to her. She nodded and pressed her eyes shut. He looked up at her mother. “The basement is filled with bones, but not just animal bones. There are human ones down there too. And the remains of some kind of ritual sacrifice or something. The floors covered in gibberish and pentagrams and there’s a dead guy in overalls with the name ‘Manny’ on the chest,” Dean summarised briefly in a low whisper. He glanced down at Jess’ face to make sure she hadn’t heard.

“What?” Lily gawped, just as Jimmy let out a high-pitched cry that didn’t sound entirely human. Jess definitely heard that one; her eyes flew open in panic and she jerked out of Dean’s grip.

Dean rushed over to his side. Lily had cleaned most of the blood from him and what remained was slowly being washed from his skin by sweat. His clothes were ruined though. Dean could see his eyes moving rapidly under his eyelids. He was breathing to fast. He put two fingers against Jimmy’s throat – there was a soft purple mark there that Dean had sucked onto his skin two weeks again and it made him ache to see it there now – and his pulse thrummed like a rabbit’s. His skin was cold. “He needs a doctor.”

He got to his feet and went to the living room, shoving past a horrified Jess, an appalled Lily, and Sam, who seemed to be having a small break down. He grabbed the plaid blanket from the sofa and paced back to the kitchen to tuck it around Jimmy’s slightly shaking form. His lips were moving fast as though he was speaking but no sound escaped him, not so much as a whisper, only the ragged, bubbling sound as he breathed into lungs half-filled with blood. It was just like that night. Dean cradled Jimmy against him, and when he glanced down he half expected to see him in an open trench coat and shirt, blood oozing from the sigil that’s now whispered in white on his chest.

He pressed a firm kiss to Jimmy’s cool, wet forehead.

“We need to get out of the house,” Dean said firmly, not turning around to face those he was talking to.

“I can’t leave Cassie,” Lily replied, her voice every bit as steady and assured as Dean’s. There was no room for argument in either of their statements. Sam said nothing. Dean presumed he was still trying to hold himself together. To be fair to him he was at least having marginal success; he wasn’t screaming and thrashing on the floor or weeping in lament for the end. Because that was what this meant, the only thing it could have meant. The end. It was back.

“Sammy,” Dean asked in a softer, louder tone. Sam didn’t respond. “Have you read anything about any demons called Manny?”

A long pause. “No.”

“Okay, that’s good. We can hold onto the hope that maybe this is a crazy witch who lost his powers when Cas recalibrated everything and still hasn’t let it go. You remember what it was like in those first few years, right? Loads of crazy ritual stuff going on, but nothing happened because of it. And nothing’s happened now, either, right?” Dean pressed hopefully.

Another long pause. “The bones, the scratches… the storm,” Sam mumbled, his voice emotionless.

“Cannibal ex-witch nut-job wouldn’t be a first, either, and from there it’s not so much of a leap to consider that someone like that could have hurt a sweet little boy like Cassie. And the storm? It’s a coincidence,” Dean said firmly. He turned to see Sammy shaking his head.

“That body has been dead for months, maybe more than twelve. Cassie got those scratches a few weeks ago. Coincidence? You don’t believe in coincidence, Dean,” Sam growled, standing a little stronger. Dean’s eyes burned. He looked determinedly down at Jimmy’s unconscious face, but it didn’t help because his expression was anything but peaceful.

“I didn’t believe in a lot of things,” he admitted. “I’m trying. I’m really trying,” he said, and it was true, but he wasn’t sure what he was trying to do exactly. “I love you,” he told Jimmy, picking a strand of hair out of the sweat on his forehead. “I’m taking him to the hospital.”

“I don’t think splitting up is a good idea,” Sam whispered. Dean looked up at him incredulously.

“Look at him!” he growled. Sam did, and shook his head.

“Dean, there’s something out there-”

“No,” Dean protested loudly. “There’s something _in here._ We need to _get out of the goddamned house!_ ” he yelled. Jimmy didn’t stir. Sam didn’t even blink. Jess sobbed.

“I am not abandoning my son!” Lily hissed furiously.

“He’s not here!” Dean yelled back at her. She looked as though she might explode. “Maybe this is why he ran away, to try and keep himself safe!”

“He’s six years old!” Lily shouted.

“Stop! What’s in the house?!” Jess shrieked. “Mommy, I’m scared.”

“I know, baby, we’re all scared,” Lily told her reassuringly.

“Do you want to get out of the house with me?” Dean asked her. Lily grabbed her daughter’s wrist. Jess looked up at her in frightened shock.

“Don’t listen to him,” Lily growled. Jess glanced back at Dean.

“Jessie, sweetheart. You can come with me and we’ll get out of the house, okay?” Dean told her calmly. She nodded. “Run upstairs and get your brother, okay?” he said softly. She nodded again. Lily dropped Jess’ wrist as though it had burned her. She ran upstairs.

“What about your _other_ brother?” she yelled after her. “Sam, stop her,” Lily pleaded. Sam was just standing there limply holding Cassie’s rucksack and a piece of paper that he’d taken out of it.

“Dean’s right,” he said, in monotone, not looking up from the floor.

“ _What?”_

“We need to get out of the house,” he continued in the same dead tone.

“He’s six years old,” Lily muttered. “How can you be saying something like this?” she spluttered, shaking her head. “I… I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“Lily,” Sam breathed. He looked up, and directly into Dean’s eyes. “I’m Sam Winchester, brother of Dean Winchester, and son of John Winchester and his wife Mary, who was killed by a demon before I ever had the chance to meet her because it was trying to get at _me._ ” Sam took a deep, steadying breath, and finally looked over at Lily. Dean clutched Jimmy tighter in his arms.

“What are you talking about?” Lily asked.

Jess emerged at the bottom of the stairs with Bobby at her side. They were both wearing raincoats and shoes with their pyjamas. Lily was holding to rucksacks. Bobby yawned and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“I will not let them get to you,” Sam mutter fiercely. Dean shuddered. Sam looked back at him.

“Azazel?” Dean asked. Sam shook his head. He took a quiet step towards Dean and handed over the paper from Cassie’s bag with his shaking hand. It was written in blue crayons. The handwriting was unmistakably Cassie’s but at the same time was not. Dean’s skin prickled.

_Regards from the Unholy Spirit._

“Shit,” Dean groaned.

“Like the holy trinity, Dean. The holy spirit, the father… and the son,” Sam explained.

“What? What do you mean? What are you saying?” Lily asked desperately, her eyes flitting from one brother to the other and back again.

“Remember when Jimmy said if something was going to come through Cas’ barriers, it’d have to be really, really powerful?” Dean asked her. She nodded. “Have you read much about Archangels?”

She raised her hand slowly to cover her open mouth. “No,” she said into her fingers. “Sam? No.”

“This is my fault,” Sam whispered brokenly. “Oh, god. Cassie. We should have known, we should have known.”

“How? There’s been nothing for years!” Dean reminded him.

“Except your boyfriend and your ex cohabiting inside their shared head!” Lily barked.

“No, no. Jimmy said he could hear Cas the whole time, like Jimmy’s a part of whatever seal Cas used to block up the flow of supernatural forces. He’s a plug or- or insulation or something,” Dean explained franticly, clutching at him. “It wasn’t like Cas was coming through, not until recently!”

“What?” Sam scoffed. Dean shook his head and shrugged.

“I don’t know! We never talked about it, he didn’t want to talk about it and I… I don’t know, Sammy. I don’t want to hear about Cas suffering.”

“Oh _shit_ , this is because of Cas, isn’t it?” Lily asked, gesturing at Jimmy’s almost lifeless body in Dean’s arms. Dean cradled him defensively.

“Cas is hurt real bad.”

“No kidding!” Lily growled. Dean glared at her.

“Stop it! You don’t understand what he – where he’s been, what he’s gone through to do this for us. All these years we’ve been here, you two so happy with your kids and Cas, Castiel, the fucking _Angel of the Lord_ , has been in down _there.”_

Sam shuddered. “Dean… do you… do you realise how long that would have been for him?”

“What do you mean?” Lily asked frustratedly. “It’s been fifteen years, right?”

“Here it has,” Dean said gruffly. Sam sighed and turned to his partner with a twisted expression.

“Down there in- in Hell. Time goes a lot more slowly,” he explained. Lily blinked at him.

“So, it’s been longer for him?” she asked quietly. Sam nodded. Dean couldn’t look at Jimmy whilst they talked about this, so instead he focused his attention on the two children on the stairs. Funny how they looked like that, with Lily out in front of Bobby in such a protective stance despite her obvious fear. Bobby looked scared but there was no edge of real understanding in his eyes, not like there was in Jess’. How was it Dean had been getting it wrong all these years, seeing Jess as her father’s daughter and Bobby being his own miniature? Seeing them like that it was obvious it was Jess who was more like Dean. She had that look already, the one that said to Dean that she understood. She clutched Bobby’s hand as he rubbed his eyes sleepily with the other. _You said to get him_ , her expression said, _and I’ve got him._ “Like, a lot longer?” Lily continued, pulled Dean out of his reverie.

“Yeah,” Sam grunted.

“So, what, fifty, sixty years?” she mused. Dean winced. “A hundred years?” she gasped. _Don’t look at him, you can hold it together as long as you don’t look at him, Dean_ , he told himself, keeping his gaze firmly away from Jimmy – from _Cas._ Sam heaved a massive sigh.

“More like eighteen hundred, or… there about,” Sam confessed. Lily stared down at Jimmy, her eyes wide. _Do not look at him, Dean. You’re fucked as soon as you look at him so do_ not _look at him._

“Eighteen hundred years?” Lily repeated. Sam nodded once, tersely. “Okay.” She sighed.

“Okay?” Dean croaked. His head tilted down but he managed to squeeze his eyes tight shut before he had to look at him. “Cas is ancient, so old that fifteen years to him would seem like nothing at all. But that long, in a place like _that?”_ he gasped, the laughed humourlessly. "Even Cas... even Cas would..." He couldn't make himself say "break".

“Dean, I didn’t mean-” Lily began, but Dean heard Sam cross the room. When he looked up he’d silenced her by putting a hand on his shoulder. Jimmy moaned in Dean’s arms, then drew a long, spluttering breath.

“We need to get Jimmy to a hospital,” Sam reminded Lily quietly. She nodded, and turned to her kids. She took a deep breath. “We’ll find him, Lily,” Sam promised her. Dean watched him slip his hand into hers and clutch it tightly. “I promise you, we’ll find him.” His words were burning with determination, and Dean knew then that Sam would stop at nothing to get Cassie back, not that he ever thought any different for even a second. “And when we do, I’m going to _kill_ Lucifer,” he added in a low growl.

“Yeah,” Dean grumbled. He took a long, deep breath and looked down at Jimmy’s face. His eyes were half open, a glimmer of bright blue visible through the veil of his lashes. He ran a finger gently over his cheekbone, and received no response. “Get in line.”


	17. Inbetween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I've not been in a good place for a while, so sorry it's been so long for this chapter to emerge, and if there's anything up with it please let me know because it's been super hard to for me to write it <3 I hope you enjoy it anyway!! The [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeSnHJqdxRxGhhR6rtWFxTOmXilaT5tXj) has been updated too, by the way :3

Dean sat on the floor of the motel shower, not caring about the dirt and grime he can see between the cracks or the black sludge that’s built up on top of the silicon seal around the glass screen. There was no soap, and the water pressure was awful, but at least the temperature was scalding enough that it actually kind of hurts and takes Dean’s mind off where he is, why he’s there. It definitely beats sitting in the bedroom, having to look at Jimmy or Cas or whoever the fuck he was just lying there on the bed, an occasional low moan breaking the silence over the ticking of the clock.

They’d all piled into Lily’s huge eight-seater, Dean behind the wheel and the husk of the men he loved slung uselessly across Sam’s lap behind him. Lily has sat up from beside him, her jaw set in a hard line and not speaking to Dean. He played her words over and over in his head, to afraid to speak or turn on the radio to try and block them out. She said it was his fault, and he knew it was probably true. He should never have told Jimmy to leave in the first place. He should have been more careful. He shouldn’t have let Cas do whatever the fuck it was he’d done that’s got them here now, Lucifer most likely in the body of Dean’s nephew, and chaos everywhere.

It had seemed like everything was fine as they drove through badger. Sure there should have been a few more lights on at that time of night, but nothing seemed that unusual. Then Dean realised the car should have been intermittently illuminated by streetlamps and it wasn’t being, that their headlights shouldn’t be the only things lighting up the road. Maybe the jolt that had blown all their fuses had blown the whole town, whatever it had been. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was all a bad dream. Dean kept his eyes on the road and tried to ignore Bobby’s tears and Lily’s angry hisses and Sam’s sighs and Jess’ sniffles and Jimmy’s little whimpers. Maybe it was all just a fucking terrible dream.

When they’d hit the highway out of town, it became blaringly obvious that something was very, very wrong. One moment they were in the rain, hammering hard against the metal so hard it sounded like machine gun fire, the next the sky is so clear that the stars are bright enough that they almost make up for the lack of streetlamps. Dean tried his best not to but he had to glimpse over his shoulder, and sure enough he could see the wall of rain like a curtain, details rapidly fading with distance as he continued to floor it towards the hospital. Of course, turning around had meant he’d had to look at Jimmy, too, and that made his head burn and his eyes sting and there were a few awful moments after he’d turned back to face the road he didn’t see it at all, just Jimmy’s grey face, half-hidden under a tea towel that Sam had pressed against it.

It had been red when they got out of the car.

Sam had gone to the office of the motel, a real run-down, beat-up Bates motel type place, and the rest of them had continued to sit as though they were still driving, Dean with one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift, eyes still darting to the rear-view mirror that he had angled specifically so he couldn’t see Jimmy in it. When Sam came back they still didn’t speak. Dean got out of the car and Sam helped him lift the small weight of Jimmy against his chest and led him to the room he was now inside of. Sam and Lily and the kids are just next door, he knew, but he felt alone, only not alone enough. They salted the doorways, warded the place as best and as fast as they could, but they were only stopping because they couldn’t go any longer without sleep, and none of them were sure where they were going.

He could hear Lily shouting through the thin walls, accusations pouring out of her like a burst dam pretty much as they were behind a closed door. Sam had always prided himself on this ‘sharing is caring’ bullshit but it was pretty damned obvious he hadn’t shared everything with Lily. Sure, she’d said herself on occasion that she didn’t know anything about the world of supernatural, even claimed she didn’t want to find out, but had Sam really not told her about Lucifer, how Sam was supposed to be his one true vessel? How that, now, was supposed to be a comfort because at least they could assume that it meant Cassie would still be intact when they found him, not splitting at the seams like had happened with Nick. Like what Castiel had begun to do to Jimmy when he’d absorbed all the souls from purgatory.

Dean kept looking down at his chest and half expecting to see a knife wound there from the pain in his chest. He presses his eyes shut but it’s unbearable. The burn of the water against his skin was distracting at first then for a while maybe soothing but now the droplets feel like the rain and all he could think was _Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy_. But he shouldn’t, he can’t. It’s too much. How empty the world had been when he’d pressed an ear against Jimmy’s chest and heart no adamant heart pounding inside of it.

The hospital car park was full, but the cars were all still. The building loomed dark and ominous without the lights on inside. The signs by the entrance towered un-illuminated like gravestones. The silence felt like it was making Dean’s ears bleed. Dean had to slow the car right down to ten miles an hour, then five, so he there was plenty of opportunity to glance into other vehicles they passed. Most seemed to be empty. The sound of idling engines deepened rather than softened the quiet. In some people were slumped over dashboards, face down. Dean had frowned, ploughed on, navigating the stationary vehicles around them, then he spotted a twirling spiral of smoke rising from thin white car like it was a giant cigarette. The front had been stubbed out against the side of the hospital’s main building. The doors were closed, everyone inside dead. Their open eyes were screaming. Everyone was dead.

Forty miles down the state road they finally passed another car.

Another ten after that and there were streetlamps on, no bent metal heaps off the side of the highway. Dean’s phone had buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t look at it. He still hadn’t. It was unexamined still in his empty jeans, which were still standing, moulded by his legs and sculpted momentarily by his feet and ankles as he stepped out of them.

Finally, he can’t take it anymore and heaves himself too his feet to fast, needing to grab onto the towel rack for support as his vision cracks and dances with pretty white fireworks. There’s a clang and a churning tear and when Dean’s eyes come back into focus he realised that the damn thing had buckled and almost broken under his weight. He glances around the room - at the cracks in the tiles and the general griminess of the place – and he concludes that even if the owners of the place noticed, they probably wouldn’t do anything about it. If anything the railing fit in much better with the décor hanging off the wall.

Dean grunted to himself, towelling himself slowly, before relenting and pulling his clothes back on. The mirror was all fogged up so he swiped a patch clear with the side of his arm; he looked about as shit as he felt, rings around his eyes dark and slightly yellow at the edges. Despite the exhaustion burning in his limbs, he felt wired, his eyes sellotaped wide in his face, blood shot and ridiculous. Suddenly he became hyper aware of the mark on his shoulder, the absence of sensation, how the skin around it could feel the t-shirt soft against it, but the hand-print was touch-blind. Without thinking he yanked the t-shirt back off and twisted in his reflection to look at it. It’s more visible that he remembered, the edges more distinct when he looked at it that way that just glancing at it without a mirror.

There was a low, strangled moan from the other side of the door. Dean’s guts knotted; how many of those had he drowned out with the sound of the shower? He swallowed. He didn’t want to leave, to face him there on the bed. He couldn’t.

Another moan, this one shorter and higher pitched, more like a whimper.

Dean took a deep, steadying breath and pulled his t-shirt on again, his hand raising automatically to press the fabric against the scar beneath it, and he took a deep breath. He unlocked the door first, then let it fall wide open on it’s own.

He frowned.

The beds were empty, both of them.

“J-Jimmy?” he asked quietly. No response. “Cas?” he attempted, doubtfully. Still nothing. He gulped and took a tentative step out of the room.

It wasn’t hard to find him, Dean literally took one slight turn of his head and spotted him, curled with his knees to his chest, hands knotted into his matted hair. He trembled and made a small, quiet sound of defeat. Dean wasn’t sure what to do with himself, but as soon as another whimper escaped those lips, his body was making all the decisions for him. He stepped forwards slowly and sank to his knees around a foot in front whichever of them this was, because he couldn’t tell, didn’t want to know what it would mean if it was Jimmy who was curled against the wall, or where he was if it was Cas. He was naked from the waist up, Jimmy’s blanket from the couch at home slung loosely over his shoulders. The room was cold, but not enough for him to be shaking like that.

He didn’t say anything or react to Dean’s presence at all, he only trembled; the in-between, both and neither of them. Dean won’t touch him, isn’t sure it would help even if he could have done it without shaking him harder than he’s already doing by himself, whichever of them he was. He could have got hung up on that, on trying to work it out, but he didn’t. He got to his feet and went over to the bed, and gathered the covers in his arms. When he turned back his eyes were wide, blue and staring. There was fear there, but also curiosity. Dean smiled and chose to shove all of that in a box, because he could already feel those thoughts beginning to burn his mind. Grief had never sat well with him, and that little bump in the bridge of Jimmy’s nose where Dean had broken it was proof enough of that for him to know that grief and hope and separating Jimmy and Cas would have no place if he wanted to be of any use to either of them. Whichever of them this was, he was hurt and he was scared.

Dean looked at him for a few moments before it got to much and then he just looked at the carpet between his bare feet and felt the water drying on his scalp and tried to ignore the blood drying on Jimmy’s. He tried to ignore the train of thought that led him down, that it was always going to be Jimmy’s head whether it was Cas inside of it or not. The face was Jimmy’s face, even if Dean had known it was Castiel behind it first. So it was Jimmy, but it might not be. Fuck, he hated this. But he didn’t hate them. More importantly, he didn’t hate _Cas_ , and it struck him that he really, probably should. He should want to scream at him if it’s him in Jimmy’s skin, and he does, a little, but he should want him out, want him gone. It shouldn’t make his breath catch in his throat. But it did.

Slinging the blankets over his shoulder, he moved to grab the pillows from the two squeaky and no doubt uncomfortable beds. With certainty, he strode over to the wardrobe and opened it to find another two pillows stuffed inside. That made six, total, which seemed like enough. He placed them carefully on the ground around him, nudged them around a little with his feet until he seemed satisfied with the arrangement. He tore the blankets off the other bed too, casting them over the thin mattress he’d made on the ground, along with the blanket over his shoulder. He tried not to look back over at him in the corner as he crossed the room and flicked out the main light so that there was only a soft glow from the bedside table to illuminate the room.

“When Sammy was a little kid, he used to get scared sometimes when dad bailed on us to go out on a hunt, and we’d get holed up in dumps like this, sometimes for weeks. When he’d get frightened I’d make him a little den like this one, you know, to… uh. Keep him safe, I guess. Not that it would,” Dean mumbled. He slumped lamely onto the ground, just a foot away from him. It took him back to his childhood, or at least to the part of his life he indulgently thought of as his childhood.

Jess and Bobby, they’d had childhoods, right? They’d had a shot at those golden, carefree years that Dean hadn’t had, that he’d tried so damned hard to make sure Sam would have but couldn’t ever really give them to him. Cassie, he’d had a good start, at least. How long had Lucifer been stalking him? Had he watched him all his life, an invisible shadow, lurking beneath their floorboards and in the corners of his bedroom? The bedroom where Jimmy had been sleeping for months. Had Lucifer been hounding his dreams too, or was that just Castiel? Dean shuddered.

He still had a sheet over his shoulder, and he slipped it off. He moved slow, the way you move around frightened deer or injured cats, deliberate and indicative of what you’re going to do. He pulled the sheet around the man in front of him, and his eyes cracked open again, just a sliver, but enough. “Dean,” he croaked, his voice cracked and broken and small. “Dean,” he said again, tears splitting from the corners of his eyes and trickling slowly down his face. They got caught in the corners of his mouth. “ _Dean,”_ he breathed.

“I know,” Dean said, but he didn’t.

“Dean,” he whispered, half-open eyes desperately searching Dean’s face for something. _What?_ Dean thought but didn’t say, _what do you want from me?_ To Dean’s horror, his face screwed up, his eyes shutting tight again and oozing more tears down his cheeks. He rocked with silent sobs. “Dean,” he moaned.

Dean’s arms moved without permission again, winding around him, holding him close so Dean could feel every shudder, every rocking sob and shaking, heaving breath. His hands had slipped under the sheet and the blanket, and as the pressed against the skin, Dean swore his blood ran cold. His back barely felt like skin at all, raw and cracked and in some parts wet with what was presumably blood. Dean pressed his face into his neck and clung tighter.

“I got you, Cas,” he mumbled into him. “I got you.”


	18. Say Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all the lovelies!! Thank you for being so lovely!!! You all ROCK :D <3

_Fifteen Years Earlier_

_Castiel looked up at the stars; they were beautiful that night. More beautiful, he swore, that they have ever been before. They were reflected, mapped out in the freckles on the cheeks of the man sat across the table from him, his cold fingers wrapped around his cheeseburger. Castiel’s own sat untouched on the wrapper before him._

_“Hey, Cas, what you looking at?” Dean asked, craning his own neck to look at the infernos millions of miles above them. Dean doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that this will be the last time Castiel ever sees the stars. If this all works right, it will, for all intents and purposes, kill him. He shouldn’t have brought Dean here, shouldn’t have allowed him to come this far when he knows he will have to leave him behind. Dean Winchester does not understand, and never will understand in all likelihood, that he is the crux of Castiel’s existence. His bruised and battered soul shines more perfectly through its marks and scars, and Castiel hopes that his will shine brighter too, even more brightly than it did when first he pulled Dean out of Hell, the ‘Righteous Man’ who turned out to be so much more._

_There was so much he had foreseen and tried to prevent, and it had taken so much of his strength and his attention for him to find a way to do this. When he had lost his grace, the horror of it was that he wouldn’t be able to finish this task. He should not have allowed Dean to come this far, should not have indulged his own wants so lavishly as to have allowed Dean to have got this close to him._

_“I’m looking at the stars,” he told him with a smile. Dean chewed his mouthful of burger and swallows it, then Castiel looked back up at the sky again, in the corner of his eye he saw Dean do the same._

_“Uh, Cas?” Dean asked. There was something wrong with the way he said that, something clearly unsettled in his voice. Castiel knew then that he was suspicious, that he had begun to guess as to what Castiel’s plan might actually involve. He couldn’t know, could not be told. Dean would not allow Castiel to do what had to be done if he knew what the cost of it was. Dean might not be able to tell him, but Castiel knew, had seen it written on Dean’s soul, that Dean wouldn’t let Castiel go if he thought he could stop him._

_This was important. This was about the world, and the way of things. A chance to finally make amends for all of his wrongs. His true purpose. Dean would not have him, would never understand the depths of Castiel’s cares for him, but Castiel could give him what he wanted so desperately. He could sever the connections between the realms, seal the doorways. It would collapse the order of things, everything would be thrown into chaos, but it would be worth it. He would be saving millions of lives, too. But mostly he would be saving Dean Winchester. Really, truly saving him. He looked at him now, the stars shining in his eyes, and knew he was making the right decision._

_Dean would be happy. He would live his life, grow old and die a well-travelled, long lived man, his soul as beautiful as the day Castiel first saw it, only made more perfect by its scars and tattered edges that let its core shine through. He would see him then, just for a brief moment. He would be the new bridge between the worlds, and when Dean passed between them, there would be a perfect little moment where Castiel saw him, and he would know then that Dean was in Heaven even if Castiel never could be. He had gone over and over it in his head. He would have to leave Dean in the car; the story was already spun. He was going to try and speak to Michael in the cage, that’s what he’d told him. It was a lie, yes, but Castiel needed that one small lie for it all to work. He needed Dean to let him go, because Dean Winchester deserved to be saved. He always deserved it, whether he believed it or not. That was Castiel’s purpose, after all, to save Dean Winchester._

_There were those few small moments that Castiel was using now to hold himself together, moments where Dean had saved him back. He looked desperately at Dean now, waiting for him to continue what he’d begun to say, and wondering if he’d say those three words he’d so desperately been waiting for him to say. Then, Castiel realised that if Dean said them, he’d never be able to leave him, whatever the consequences of that might be. He would watch the world burn if Dean asked him to. He’d do anything for him if he asked him._

_Would Dean remember him a year from now? Two years? Castiel knew Dean had known many friends whom he had lost. He had called Castiel family, but he knew that was probably just to stop him from killing him. Even though he treasured those moments where Dean had managed to break through the bindings on Castiel’s mind and pull him out, where it had felt so like for a moment, a perfect moment, that Dean had been about to tell him those words he needed so desperately to hear. Dean had taught Castiel many things about humanity, about flaws and fear and fierce emotions, about how actions would speak louder than words. Castiel knew that Dean would not understand if he tried to explain what he was doing, and that he was doing it for him._

_“It’s good to see you,” Dean said, and Castiel smiled. That was enough. Dean finished his burger and they got back into the Impala. Castiel was quiet on the drive; he watched Dean as he bobbed his head along to LED Zeppelin and tapped the rhythm into the steering wheel as they went. He seemed oblivious to Castiel’s turmoil, but then that was a good thing. That was something that Dean had taught him; don’t show the ones you love that you are afraid._

_“So you’re going to go ask Michael how we can prevent this Croatoan virus shit, right?” Dean asked at the end of the album._

_“That’s correct, Dean,” he replied, a lie. Dean glanced at him, and for a moment Castiel was afraid – he hoped – that Dean saw through it was about to launch into some desperate speech about how Castiel should not do this. But Dean simply smiled and turned back to the road._

_“You really think that’s going to work?” he asked, which seemed unusual for him. Perhaps he had taken Castiel’s fear for uncertainty._

_“I have been told that it is always worth a shot,” Castiel reminded him. Dean smiled a little wider then, flashing his white teeth. Castiel smiled back, though Dean wasn’t looking at him. He would put this moment away with the others, moments where Dean pulled him into his arms and held him there, waking with Dean’s hands on his face. Watching him raking the grass, knowing without a doubt that he would do anything, absolutely anything to make the world better for Dean Winchester._

_“Damn right, Cas,” Dean told him. They didn’t speak after that, Castiel just watched Dean drive, and Dean occasionally stole a glance back. Eventually they reached the field. Dean grimaced when he looked across it. Castiel wondered if Dean remembered clawing his way out of the ground here as vividly as he did, so newly remade, the burn of Castiel’s touch fresh in his shoulder. He hadn’t needed to leave that mark there, but something had compelled him to. Something deep and profound, that he would never be able to explain. He had thought Dean had felt it to, but as the years had passed, it became clear that he didn’t._

_They sat in the car for a few moments, looking out at the field illuminated by the Impala’s headlights, until Castiel reached for the handle so he could get out. “Hey, Cas?” Dean said, making Castiel freeze._

_He waited silently for Dean to continue._

_“After all this is done… maybe, maybe we could go grab a burger and a beer some place?” Dean offered, his tone flustered. Castiel smiled sadly, because was not the sort of thing that would ever be ‘done’._

_“Perhaps,” Castiel allowed. Dean smiled brightly at that, and guilt flashed through him that made it more difficult and more imperative that he get out the car right then and there. He did it in one quick, fluid movement. Dean wound down his window and leaned out of it._

_“Want me to come with?” he asked._

_“It’s best you return to Sam now, he’ll wonder where you have been,” Castiel pointed out. Dean nodded._

_“Alright,” Dean agreed. The Impala’s engine started up. Castiel moved to stand between it’s headlights. “And Cas?” he called again. This time Castiel didn’t turn to look at him, afraid as to what that would do. “Don’t forget about that beer, alright?” he told him._

_“I won’t, Dean,” Castiel replied. That was not a lie. It was a relief to have the truth on his tongue. He stared out into the field determinedly until he heard the car pull away and drive off, and he knew he was alone. He had been to afraid to watch him go, afraid that it would make him cry out for Dean not to leave him, to stay right until the end, but he couldn’t admit that’s what this was. He couldn’t tell Dean he needed him here whilst he did this, because it would involve explaining what it was, and he already knew he couldn’t tell Dean that._

_Castiel looked up at the stars and saw Dean in them. He closed his eyes._

_“Father, if there is another way… show me another way. Please,” Castiel whispered. He didn’t know what he was hoping would be there when he opened his eyes again, but it was still just the field of swaying grass. He took a deep breath and stepped out into it. He would find the place, the warm little nest where he’d remade Dean from the earth and pieces of himself, something he didn’t understand and couldn’t quite believe had been possible. He could feel his palms tingling as he got closer. Pheasants spooked and flapped free of the grass, their wings singing to Castiel the way he’d once heard his brothers and sisters, long since silenced to Castiel’s ears._

_He was not an angel, and he was not a human, not the way Dean was. The last grace he’d had was stolen, and the body he claimed as his own really belonged to someone else, that quiet, solitary whisper in the back of his mind  that he pretended was his imagination. Jimmy’s soul was safe in heaven, where Dean’s would go, and Sam’s, and where Castiel’s couldn’t ever be. He was bent and twisted and corrupted and wronged, a shadow, the burnt and blackened remnants of an angel. No wonder his Father didn’t listen to his fevered, desperate prayers. He was an abomination. That was why this task would be his, why he had to lie himself down and become the knots that tied everything more tightly together, the new seal between the worlds. If only Cas could provide a door, then things in heaven would be able to right themselves. He wasn’t sure what would happen to hell; he wasn’t certain the systems of control down there had ever been stable enough to warrant the title ‘righted’. And here, well. Dean Winchester would be safe from harm. There would be no demons for him to chase, no angels threatening to take over the world, no risk of harm to his beloved Sam anymore. He would be safe, and he would surely be happy. That, Castiel thought, was enough to do this._

_He took the knife from his pocket. He had taken it from Dean’s block in the kitchen of the bunker. He hoped Dean would understand that he hadn’t meant to steal it. Perhaps one day he would come back here and find the bones of Castiel’s vessel and the knife would still be there and he would understand. He wondered how long it would take for Dean to come back here and look for him, if he ever would. As he began to unbutton his shirt, he was struck by a horrifying thought; what if he would no longer be able to hear Dean’s prayers, wherever he was?_

_No, he mustn’t consider that. He had come too far to turn back from this now. He had to do it._

_The first jolt of pain as the knife pierced his flesh made the stars shine brighter, it seemed. He hissed a breath and felt his heart pound harder in his stolen chest. This was not like the last times he did this, where he had still had enough grace to mediate the pain. Every draw of the blade was agony. It was difficult to remember the pattern, the deliberate symbol he was drawing there._

_“Cas! Cas what the hell are you doing?” Dean was screaming at him. He couldn’t be, he’d left him. He’d got back into the car. Castiel had watched him. He’d gone._

_“Cas!” Sam was there too. No. This was wrong. This was not how he had planned this. The knife was still in his flesh, but the last part of the symbol was drawn; it was complete. He could not stop this now._

_“Cas! Cas!” Dean yelled. Castiel could not take it anymore, and although he knew he should be falling to his knees into the hollow in the earth that Dean had been born that second time, he was turning, turning to see his face._

_Dean was running towards him, his eyes wide. He could see Sam far behind him, but paid him no attention. Dean had looked like this before only when Sam had been in danger, teeth bared like he was hoping to tear out somebody’s throat with them, moving with impossible force and speed, as unstoppable as a human could ever appear. Castiel was turned fully now towards him, and it must have been clear what he had done. He hazarded a glance down at himself and saw first the rivulets of blood, almost completely hiding the symbol he’d drawn with his fingers to guide him, eyes tracked on the sky. His sleeves were heavy with it. He was still holding the knife in that last detail._

_Dean stopped short about a foot from him. Castiel wanted to scream at him to come closer but found he could only look on in horror as Dean did the same to him. Dean barely glanced at the self-inflicted wound, his eyes fixed on Castiel’s as they began to soften with understanding. He shook his head just slightly._ I love you _, Castiel thought but couldn’t bring himself to say._ Dean Winchester, I love you, _he thought. He hoped his eyes would tell Dean for him, these words he would now never have the chance to say._

 _“Don’t do this Cas, we need you,” Dean said, desperately. “_ I _need you,” he corrected. Castiel’s throat constricted. He willed for him to say it, to just say that again but change one word. Dean looked as though he was fighting the urge to throw up. Castiel looked back up at the stars, then at their map on Dean’s cheeks. He released the breath he’d been holding, and with one last trembling upwards tug, dragged the knife out of himself, and the world, and Dean – everything. It all crumbled into dust._

_Whirling wrapping burning through time, falling hard and fast but forever. He fell so long that he forgot about landing, about the idea of landing, until it happened._

_He breathed the smell of lilac._

_He knew this place._

_It was heaven, but not a part that Castiel had ever been before._

_“Castiel?” asked a voice that sounded almost like his own. He sat up and saw himself reflected. There was a transparent moment; on one side of it he didn’t understand and the other he did._

_“Jimmy,” he replied._

_“Why… why are you here?” Jimmy asked, shaking his head, but of course it wasn’t really his head at all, just a dream. Castiel looked down; he was still in his blood soaked clothes, but there was no pain anymore._

_“I don’t know,” he replied honestly._

_Jimmy showed him the stream, silver and warm. It lapped against Jimmy’s hand but went right through Castiel’s as though he wasn’t even there. “I thought it would heal you,” Jimmy explained._

_“I’m not meant to be here anymore,” Castiel told him, with a soft smile. Jimmy frowned._

_“What’s happened?” he asked, concerned._

_“Don’t you hear me anymore?” Castiel wondered. Jimmy shrugged._

_“A little, now and then,” he replied._

_“I still hear you,” Castiel offered._

_“You’re hurt,” Jimmy noticed. Castiel nodded. Bees like small orbs of gold flew silently around them, the not-air flavouring with honey wherever they passed. One went right through Castiel’s chest, but he didn’t feel it at all._

_“Yes,” Castiel agreed. They sat on the ground, soft like a peach. “I don’t think this was supposed to happen,” he said honestly._

_“No?” Jimmy asked._

_“No.”_

_“I think you’re fading,” Jimmy explained. Castiel looked down at his hand._

_“Yes, I think so,” he replied simply. Jimmy only nodded. Castiel looked up at the sky again, at the stars above them both, and they were moving, moving like the freckles over Dean’s cheeks as he spoke._

_“What’s happening?” Jimmy asked. Castiel frowned._

_“I don’t know,” he admitted._

_“I think he’s trying to talk to you,” Jimmy mused. Castiel wondered why he didn’t just fall right through the ground they were lying on._

_“Who?” Castiel asked._

_“Dean Winchester,” Jimmy said, as though it was a stupid question._

_“Oh, of course,” Castiel mused. They watched the moving stars for a little while, and then a soft, warm breeze ruffled Jimmy’s hair. It whispered to them._

_“Cas, please,” it breathed. It made Castiel’s insubstantial skin prickle. “Wake up.”_

_“I’m not sleeping,” Castiel replied to him. Jimmy rolled onto his side so that Castiel could see him and not just hear him._

_“Are you dead?” he asked, oddly._

_“No,” Castiel replied. “I’m supposed to have been unspun, my being redistributed throughout the planes of existence, a thread to bind it all together.”_

_“What about me, though?” Jimmy asked. “I’m not dead either,” he pointed out._

_“No, you’re not,” Castiel agreed. That was what was so odd about the part of heaven that was Jimmy’s; it was like a temporary home for his soul. He was still tied to the body that Castiel had been occupying, and that was why he had still heard him in the back of its mind. The symbol would split down a soul, but they were not one soul. They were two, weirdly and impossibly moulded._

_“And Dean Winchester is a part of us too,” Jimmy pointed out, as though he had heard Castiel’s thoughts. “That’s why we can still hear him.”_

_Castiel’s shoulder smarted and burned. Through the fabric of his coat, he saw a raw handprint, identical to the one he’d left on Dean. He’d remade him, of course, from parts of himself. Stitched up his soul with scraps of his own. They were all of them joined, and he had realised that too late. He could not be undone in the way the symbol intended, could not become the drawstrings on the entrances of the realms. He had failed. Again._

_He looked around. Beyond the lilac gardens in his and Jimmy’s mind, the walls, divisions were crumbling. The gates of heaven, towering and white and inter-dimensional, had crashed to the ground. Castiel could hear the angels again, he realised, but they were not singing any more. They were screaming. Their home was gone, destroyed, the ranks they so desperately lived to conform to obliterated. Freedom was a length of rope, and instead of using it to tie everything shut, Castiel had inadvertently picked it apart into a million strands that could not be tied back together._

_“Cas?” Jimmy asked._

_“No,” Castiel told him. He grabbed Jimmy’s forearms, and to Jimmy’s surprise his grip was very much present, Jimmy’s eyes widened._

_“What are you doing?” Jimmy yelped._

_“I’m_ trying _, it’s all I have ever done. I’m trying,” Castiel found himself shouting._

_“Castiel, let go of me!” Jimmy insisted._

_“I have to fix this. There must be a way to fix this,” Castiel said desperately._

_“Fix_ what?” _Jimmy demanded._

_Castiel wrapped his arms around him, and found himself with wings again where there had only been hacked and burnt stumps for so long, and he heaved them up for one beat, and then they were going down, down, down. Because if the gates of heaven had crumbled, then the gates of hell had crumbled too. And if the order of the angels was destroyed, then Lucifer was free. His cage was gone, obliterated._

_“All I ever wanted to do was save Dean Winchester,” Castiel said, as though Jimmy were listening. “That was it; that was all.”_

_“Let me go!” Jimmy yelped, but he was no longer in the guise he’d been in their little patch of heaven, he was a bright squirming light in Castiel’s hands. It hurt to pull him away. They were in a dark room. Castiel had to feel his way around with his mind for them to find it, Jimmy’s body, right there on the floor. No. Not in the floor. In Dean’s arms. Castiel tried to see his face, but the world was black to his true eyes, meant to see in the bright lights of heaven. He pressed the light of Jimmy’s soul into his body. It fought and strained against it’s new confinement. Over the massive sound of the earth, like the roar of flames increased exponentially, Castiel heard Sam Winchester’s voice._

_“Dean, he has a pulse! He’s alive!”_

_“Cas!” Dean said. Castiel wanted to wrap himself around the place he knew Dean was._

_“Dean!” he tried to yell back._

_“Cas, buddy, please wake up, please,” Dean was sobbing._

_“DEAN! DEAN I’M HERE,” Castiel yelled. Dean leaned over Jimmy’s body, pressing his lips over Jimmy’s breathing air into his lungs. “DEAN!” Castiel cried._

_“Please, Cas. Don’t you fucking die on me, don’t you fucking dare!” Dean said, pulling Jimmy to his chest._

_“Not_ on _you Dean,_ for _you,” Castiel pleaded. “Dean! You can hear me! I know you can hear me!” Castiel begged._

_“Cas, come on, buddy. Breathe, please, come on,” Dean begged before breathing into Jimmy’s body again._

_“Dean, I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry,” Castiel sobbed. Something changed, the world around him shifted slightly, then returned again. “Dean? Dean!”_

_“There, come on! You almost did it!” Dean said exultantly._

_“Dean?” Castiel asked._

_Jimmy drew a shuddering breath, and the blackness fell away to red, and Castiel was alone._

_“Dean?” he said. He looked around. There was nothing. Nobody. “Please, Dean. Say something!” he said desperately._

_“Oh, Castiel,” said a familiar sour voice._

_“DEAN!” Castiel screamed._

_“He can’t hear you from here, little brother,” Lucifer told him._

_“Please, Dean, please,” he sobbed. Lucifer chuckled._

_“You did a pretty good job of tying up the loose ends considering how little of you there is actually left,” Lucifer commented. Castiel whirled around, bare, exposed, flesh tingling and aching as he did so, every breath choking and scalding, but there was nobody there._

_“Dean!”_


	19. Something It's Not

Dean was sat on the edge of the bed when his phone rang again.

He’d woken on the pillow-nest on the ground, he and Castiel lying in Pisces, each of their heads next to the other’s shins. Dean didn’t remember falling asleep, or lying down like that. The night was a blur of tears and blood and his name said over and over again until Cas actually went hoarse and couldn’t speak it any more. Still his lips had moved like he was trying to. Dean gave up trying to work out what he wanted and just held him and hoped that was enough.

He’d sat up and found Cas’ eyes open and determined, the set of them making Dean wonder if he’d even slept at all. Wordlessly, he’d got to his feet and gone to the wardrobe, taking out a fresh towel which he handed down to Cas. Likewise, when Cas had stood he hadn’t said anything either. Dean heard him hiss in pain over the sound of the shower when he’d first got into it, no doubt in response to the water hitting the raw skin on his back. Dean hadn’t looked at it yet. He realised that Cas didn’t actually have a shirt to wear, and Jimmy’s jeans were stiff with dried blood. Dean hadn’t exactly had time to pick up any other clothes to wear either, but at least he had a full outfit that was only marginally stained in Jimmy’s blood.

Cas had yelped, and Dean’s heart had sped up a little in response, but he didn’t move from his perch on the end of the bed. He stared at the bathroom door. Then his phone buzzed against his leg. He pulled it out of his pocket and frowned at it. The number at the top of the display was flickering at changing, and it wasn’t just showing numbers either – there were intermittent letters and symbols. The rate at which they were changing got faster and faster, and the ringing seemed to get louder and louder. Dean didn’t know what to do with it. It was vibrating harder and harder against it’s palm, getting warmer and warmer in his grip until the plastic case was so hot he had to drop it to the ground. Smoke was rising from between the keys, winding in little trails back up to Dean. Then abruptly the smoke vanished, the ringing ceased, and the screen went black.

Dean frowned at it, then remembered that his phone had broken in the basement. And then that it had buzzed last night too. He leaned down towards it, hesitating with his fingers less than an inch from the screen. He was vaguely aware of the bathroom door opening and the little room becoming saturated with humidity, but was too absorbed by the device on the ground to equate that to Cas leaving the bathroom. There was a moment where the air seemed to hang heavy and still, where Dean felt as though his lungs just wouldn’t move no matter how much he tried to force them.

Then the screen lit up so bright that Dean’s hand pulled back automatically to shield his eyes. He blinked, and the light was gone. Replaced by three numbers on the screen. Six, six, and no prizes for guessing the last one; six.

“Uncle Dean?” Cassie’s voice bled out of the speaker. Dean gasped.

“Cassie?” he choked. Across the room, Cas’ breath hitched in his throat but Dean barely registered it.

“Oh boy, I’ve really got you going good this time, haven’t I Dean?” Cassie’s voice continued, only now it was clear that it wasn’t him at all. Cassie couldn’t sneer that way, couldn’t make Dean’s body chill right to the bone like that.

“Lucifer, you son of a bitch,” Dean growled.

“Now, now; I’m sure Sam wouldn’t like it if he heard you talking about his lovely wifey that way, now would he? How is dear old Sam, by the way? Still as headstrong and steeped in self-pity as always, I presume,” Lucifer drawled through Cassie. Dean’s skin prickled. “Oh Dean, come _on,_ say something. It’s been such an awfully long time since we’ve heard your voice. Castiel can vouch for that, can’t you baby brother?” Lucifer laughed sourly.

Dean’s eyes flicked up from the phone to Castiel, who was standing still in the doorway of the bathroom, Jimmy’s hair wet and sticking to his forehead, his chest covered in long red lines that cut right across the symbol in his chest. His eyes were closed, his hands curled into fists with white knuckles. Dean looked back down at the phone.

“What do you want, Lucifer?” Dean growled.

“Oh, to gloat, mostly. And to thank Castiel, of course, for being the one who made this all happen,” Lucifer laughed sourly. Dean glanced up at Cas, but he was shrinking against the doorframe now, eyes trained desperately on the phone. “I can practically _hear_ the expression on your face. Don’t tell me you’ve spent the whole evening with my dear baby brother and you haven’t even asked him what he was actually doing down on that field that night?” Lucifer goaded.

Castiel shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he moved.

“Oh, come on, Dean-o, he obviously wasn’t trying to call Michael for a little chat like he’d to you he was,” Lucifer pointed out. Dean tried to catch Cas’ eye but couldn’t. “You didn’t _believe_ him, did you?” Lucifer laughed mirthlessly. “You’re worse off than I thought.”

“Shut up,” Dean hissed. Finally Cas’ eyes met his, wide and fearful. Dean looked away almost immediately.

“Now, now. Don’t be rude,” Lucifer chided.

“Fuck you,” Dean growled.

“No thank you, you’ve got me confused with someone else, I think,” Lucifer sighed. “You know, when they say ‘one true vessel’, they really are being melodramatic. This one’s just peachy, if a little small. If only your little boyfriend could have held on a little longer, Dean,” he sneered. Dean glanced up at Cas. “No, not lovely Cassie, Dean. The other one, Jimmy,” he drawled.

“What?” Dean growled.

“Raw nerve?” Lucifer asked.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Now, now, Dean; if you’re going to be like that why don’t you just hang up? Oh yes – your phone is broken,” Lucifer said, and the phone went dead again. Dean picked it up, jamming uselessly at the buttons. After a minute or so he gave up and flung it at the wall with an angry bark.

Cas flinched. He was shivering. Dean regarded him coolly as he trembled delicately in his towel. Equal parts of him wanted to wrap him in his arms and punch him in the face. It was the vestiges of reason that caused him to do neither.

“You let him out of the cage, didn’t you?” Dean asked quietly. Cas didn’t answer. He took at as a confirmation. “What the fuck, Cas?”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Cas croaked. His voice was still hoarse; tiny and broken, the husky ghost of what it had been once. His body mirrored that too. He hadn’t turned, so Dean still hadn’t seen the full extent of his injuries, but there were a few lash marks on his chest, too. Dean tried not to think about it, steeled himself against that initial shock of seeing such marks of great pain. He channelled that feeling into his anger towards Lucifer as something else stirred in him. He tried determinedly not to see Cas as Jimmy standing before him, shaking and hurt. He had to see Cas for what he was; an angel, tattered and hurt but still an angel, still capable of great feats like stealing somebody else’s skin.

“Oh yeah? You never do, do you?” Dean growled. Cas grimaced, hunching his shoulders.

“I tried to fix this,” Cas rasped.

“Fix what, exactly?” Dean snapped.

“My mistake! All of my mistakes,” Cas croaked. Dean must not crumble at the way Cas’ arms wind around his torso protectively.

“By letting Lucifer out of the cage?”

“The cage is gone, Dean, destroyed,” Cas barely managed to say.

“What?”

“It was destroyed when I… when I tried to use my soul to seal the ways between the planes, Dean,” Cas’ breath was speeding up and he was clinging to the doorway for support.

“When you tried to do _what?”_  Dean was almost shocked to hear himself yell. “What the fuck was that supposed to achieve, Cas? What were you _thinking?”_

 _“I DON’T KNOW,”_ Cas yelled, the ground quivering as he did. His knees buckled and he fell down, his hands propping him up. He was breathing hard, a low gurgling sound reverberating through the room that made Dean’s stomach churn. Of course, now Dean could see what little remained of the skin of his back. He couldn’t believe anyone could live through that. There were scabs cut through with fresh red raw lines, parts of him that seemed not to have any skin left on them at all. In some areas, the cuts had formed a crumbly black crust. He hoped that the glimpse of white amongst the reds and blacks was just a trick of the light.  His arms shook, then gave out.

There was a knock at the door. Dean jumped at the sound. “Dean? What’s going on?” Sam called from the other side it. Relief tickled Dean’s palms. He yanked the door open. Sam was wide eyed but clearly fresh out of bed. He glanced desperately over Dean’s shoulder. “I… I thought I heard-”

“Yeah. It was Lucifer,” Dean explained in a low voice.

“What?” Sam gasped.

“He called. To taunt us, presumably,” Dean grumbled. Sam nodded and swallowed hard.

“And he’s… he was…?” Sam struggled to speak and failed to finish. But Dean knew what he was asked.

“Yeah. It was Cassie,” Dean told him. Sam’s expression hardened and he nodded once, tersely.

“The floor was shaking,” Sam muttered in monotone.

“That wasn’t Lucifer – that one was Cas.”

“Cas?” Sam repeated. Dean nodded. “Shit. Is he?”

“He’s the one that did this, Sammy,” Dean whispered. Sam frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“He let Lucifer out of the cage,” Dean explained.

“He did _what?”_ Sam gasped, shaking his head. “That’s impossible. You’d have to break all the seals and, there’s no way he did that on his own. And besides that, Dean, he… he _wouldn’t_ do that,” Sam whispered in disbelief.

“He didn’t have to do any of that because he didn’t just let him out of the cage, he fucking destroyed it,” Dean growled.

“But… but it was made by God, right?” Sam was still shaking his head.

“I know,” Dean grumbled. “He said something about using his soul to patch up something, I don’t know.”

“Oh. Oh, _fuck_ ,” Sam groaned. “Is he.. is he alright?” Sam asked. Dean shrugged.

“He spent the whole night in some kind of shocked state, I don’t know,” Dean replied, hoping that Sam wouldn’t ask for details. _He says your name when he’s afraid, you know;_ Jimmy’s words rang around the inside of Dean’s skull. What had Cas _done?_

“Dean…” he croaked from the corner of the room. Dean froze up at Sam’s responding frown of concern. Sam looked at Dean with incredulity and shoved him aside.

“Jesus!” Sam yelped. When Dean turned, Sam was crouched beside Cas on the floor. He was still sprawled on his front, but there was a pool of puke now beside his face. Dean’s body froze up on him; he clung to the wall. All he could see was Jimmy “You were just going to leave him like this?” Sam gaped.

“I- I,” Dean stuttered uselessly. Sam glared at him.

“Help me, goddamn it!” Sam complained, snapping Dean’s body out of it at least if not his mind. Between they lifted Cas and lay him on his front on one of the stripped mattresses. “I’ll go grab the first aid kit out of the car,” Sam announced. Dean nodded. “Stay with him,” Sam instructed. Dean nodded again, but Sam narrowed his eyes. He left after another moment of glaring.

“Dean,” Cas rasped. Dean leaned a little closer toward him.

“Hey,” he replied, hoping he hadn’t slipped back into a state of shock again.

“It hurts,” he squeaked, his eyes opening wide and blue, staring right into Dean. Dean gasped, a cold thrill running down his spine. He felt something cold close around his hand, and when he looked he discovered it was Cas’ fingers, clutching him as tight as he could manage.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Dean choked out.

“I’m not,” Cas despaired quietly. “I’m not… alright.” He had to pause to take a breath to have enough to finish his sentence. Dean’s eyes were stinging. “I’m so… sorry,” he gasped.

“No,” Dean growled.

“I am,” Cas insisted weakly, but with conviction in his blue, blue eyes. Dean wasn’t fucking crying. He wasn’t.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, but he smiled. Cas didn’t smile back. He looked like he was waiting for Dean to say something, eyes wide and swimming with moisture that dripped and soaked into the fabric under his cheek. Dean took a deep breath and held it, then twisted his hand within Cas’ grip so he could clutch it right back. “Shut up,” Dean repeated. Cas lips parted a little, like he was going to try and say something else, but Dean shook his head once, sharply, and instead Cas only let his eyes close shut. He looked worse without them to brighten his face. It was impossible to ignore just how grey he was.

“I don’t know how much help this is going to be,” Lily’s voice broke Dean’s concentration. He snapped up his head. She looked as tired and ill as Sam did, her orange hair pulled back loosely to the nape of her neck. She was carrying the first aid box. “Oh shit,” she groaned when she saw the state of Cas. “I really don’t think this is going to help,” she mumbled. Dean nodded tersely.

“It. Fuck, it’s going to sting, okay?” she mused, rummaging through the kit. Cas, it seemed, was out for the count. Dean resisted the urge to run his hand across his cheek. Lily was looking at him with an odd expression, like she knew exactly the turmoil that was running through Dean’s head.

“Just do it,” Dean mumbled. She nodded, and went about putting some antiseptic ointment onto a cotton ball. She swiped it experimentally across one of the more raw looking wounds, and paused. Cas didn’t stir. Both Dean and Lily exhaled in relief, letting go of breaths neither one of them had been aware they were holding. “Where’s Sam?” Dean asked quietly after a moment. Lily glanced up from applying more ointment to a fresh ball of cotton.

“He went after Jess,” she explained.

“What?” Dean puzzled.

“She stormed off,” Lily explained with clear irritation. Dean frowned.

“She okay?” he asked flatly. It seemed odd to be asking about the well-being of the other kids when they knew one of them was currently possessed by the devil himself. It didn’t sit well with Lily, either. She shifted uncomfortably and swiped the cotton a little too vigorously across Cas’ back, because he yelped, his grip on Dean’s hand tightening. “Shush,” Dean soothed. Cas’ eyes searched Dean’s desperately. “I got you,” Dean promised him. He whimpered. “I got you.”

Lily regarded him oddly, but when Dean raised an eyebrow she only shook her head. “I… I think she’s okay. Upset about Cassie. But we all are,” Lily surmised.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. That deep, core shaking anger returned to the pit of Dean’s stomach. He remembered Cassie stood above that mound of grass, wearing sleeves of that deer’s blood and screaming, screaming at him.

“Dean!” Sam called suddenly. Dean whipped around to see his brother in the doorway, almost filling it, but distraught. “The motel owner. He’s dead,” Sam explained. Dean frowned.

“What?”

“I just went to apologise for the puke on the floor and… he’s dead. Neck snapped at his desk,” Sam explained. “The body’s cold. It’s been a while,” Sam continued.

“Where’s Jess?” Dean asked him.

“She’s sat in the car,” Sam assured him.

“Bobby?” Dean pressed.

“In the room,” Sam said confidently.

“Did… did they…?” Dean attempted uselessly.

“I think they saw the bodies yesterday, Dean,” Sam replied, his voice low and sympathetic. Dean nodded.

“It’s alright, I mean. How old were we when we first saw a dead body?” Dean scoffed, trying to brush it off. Lily inhaled sharply through her teeth, the sound like an angry cat.

“You know as well as I do that’s not the point,” Sam muttered in response.

“No,” Dean agreed just as quietly.

“Not the point?” Lily hissed. She was fuming. Dean was surprised there wasn’t actually steam rolling off her. “Only it _is_ the point, isn’t it?” she spat.

“What are you saying?” Sam challenged.

“If you hadn’t been some blood junkie and lied about it for years then we wouldn't be in this fucking mess,” Lily accused. Sam seemed to visibly shrink at her words.

“Lily,” Dean warned. She looked incredulous.

“Don’t you _‘Lily_ ’ me, you self-righteous bastard,” she spat. She was still working on Cas’ back. He seemed to have passed out again, though his grip on Dean’s hand hadn’t lessened one bit.

“I didn’t choose this,” Sam said quietly. It was the truth, Dean knew.

“But you chose not to tell me about it!” Lily threw the blood encrusted cotton ball onto the floor as she yelled. Dean winced, fucking his head down towards Cas’ like it would offer him sort of comfort. Cas’ eyes were half-open in unconsciousness, his jaw clamped tight in contrast. Dean counted his eyelashes and the short, sharp blasts of his breath against the back of his hand where it was clasped still between their faces.

“You said that you didn’t want to know,” Sam reminded her, his voice strained and desperate. Dean didn’t need to look to know that he’d be on the verge of tears.

“I didn’t think it was important! I didn’t think it would mean the life of my son!” she countered.

“I didn’t think it _was_ important. How the hell was I supposed to know that this would happen? I thought that it had stopped; I thought there were no more demons or angels or any of that shit! I thought we were _free!”_ Sam laughed bitterly. “All my life, that was all I ever wanted, to be free of all of that shit, and I thought… I was stupid enough to think that it had actually happened, alright?”

Lily was quiet now. Dean glanced up at her. Her eyes were shut as she seemed to muster her resolve to continue, but when she opened her mouth all that happened was that he lip quivered.

“If I… if I didn’t think it had, I wouldn't have had kids in the first place,” Sam admitted sourly. Lily flinched, moving her hand to cover her mouth. Tears rolled down her cheeks, a shaky breath rocking the bed. Dean sat back up a little and turned slightly so that he could see Sam. He had his hand tangled into his stupid hair. The idiot was crying too.

“Oh, Sam,” Lily said shakily.        

“Whatever,” Sam growled, and turned on his heel, then disappeared from view.

“I just want him to be okay,” Lily whispered, to no one in particular. Dean wondered if she meant Sam or Cassie. He looked down at the sleeping man beside him, his dark hair sticking up oddly from the shower. He decided it didn’t matter which one it was. It would have meant the same.


	20. This Is Gospel

Sam had been right about the motel owner; he had definitely been dead for some time. He was stone cold, face down on the desk he’d been sat behind the night before. His skin had a pallid, drained quality, and the veins in his upturned wrists were grey, not purple or blue, and gave the appearance of having been sketched on with pencil. Dean banged his fist experimentally on top of the till and the draw pinged open with the sound of an old fashioned school bell, only much quieter. “Dean!” Lily protested.

“What?” he sighed, taking out the cash they’d used to pay for their rooms and stuffing it into her hand. She looked at it with disgust.

“We don’t need money,” she huffed, slamming it aggressively back into the drawer before shutting the till up again. She was right, of course; they hadn’t been short on cash at all since Jimmy had been staying with them. His combined guilt for taking up space in their house and for inheriting Marcus’ apparently sizable estate was enough that he was covering more than half of their mortgage repayments. He’d offered to cover it all, and even to buy the house outright, but of course Lily and Sam had refused him. They couldn’t stop him buying the kids clothes and books and toys, or new pots and pans. Dean’s wallet was always suspiciously well-stocked with a variety of notes and coins despite the fact he’d not withdrawn any cash for months, not since the second time he’d gone to Rome, in fact. It wasn’t worth bringing it up with him. He flushed bright red and fell silent. The last few months it just hadn’t felt right to contest it, and Dean felt guilty bringing it up because he knew he was doing it more for the fact it made it happy than out of any sense of obligation. Dean knew it was stupid but Lily’s small reminder had sent regret coursing through him in nauseating waves. He’d never get to thank him, never get to show him that he cared, too.

That was what the cottage was for, ultimately; a little space that could be theirs, but where they would still be close to Lily and Sammy and the kids. He’d never have the chance to wire it now, or to go pick up that miniature stove he’d ordered for in there. It felt as though there were ropes around his chest and inside of him. They twisted against his skin and his organs, made it impossible for him to breathe right. Lily was looking at him oddly. He rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat, forcing himself to move again.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Fine,” he grunted.

“I figured you were used to seeing corpses,” she said with a grimace.

“It’s not a corpse; it’s Castiel,” Dean hissed. Lily’s eyes went wide but soft. They made the ropes twist tighter. He want to yell, to break something, but he could only stand there.

“I meant him,” she explained quietly. Dean swallowed and nodded.

“Yeah. Right,” he said, just barely managing to get the words out.

“Dean,” she began softly, in a tone that made Dean know she intended to continue. He opened his mouth to protest but she shook her head, pre-empting him. “We don’t know he’s gone,” she reminded him.

“Well he’s not in there, is he?” Dean growled. Lily’s eyes tightened, she chewed her lip.

“That. That doesn’t mean he’s gone though,” she pointed out. “Castiel wasn’t gone,” she offered his information shaking her head. “That whole time before, you knew Castiel for years, right? Jimmy wasn’t gone then.”

Dean shook his head too. “He was…” he started to tell her about what Jimmy had said, about being in heaven, about Castiel dragging him back from there. The pain that had been in his eyes as he’d said that, pain Dean should have kissed away but didn’t.

“But I came back, Jimmy came back. He can come back again, just like Cassie will come back,” Lily whispered. Dean grabbed her and pulled her into a hug. For a moment she was stiff as an ironing board, then he felt her arms creep around his back and she clutched him back. Her shoulders trembled and he held a little tighter. “Sam came back, too,” she whispered into Dean’s chest.

Should he tell her about what it had cost for that to happen? She dropped her arms, and stepped back from him, laughing as she dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. No. He shouldn’t.

“Sorry,” she sniffed, smiling tearfully up at him. He shook his head and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“So, uh. Dead guy,” he mumbled. She nodded, and jumped aside. Dean rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored her reaction and stepped forward, hesitating before he touched the guy. It was weird, unsettling to be back doing this. Not because he felt out of practice, but because he felt like he’d never stopped. The thought erased the small comfort Lily’s hug had given him, and he felt like he was going to hurl again, though that had nothing to do with the cold, uncomfortably firm flesh under his fingertips. “Yeah, neck’s broken,” he spluttered.

Lily was frowning at him. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked. He nodded. “It must be hard-”

“Lily, could we not?” he grumbled. She was about to protest, then snapped her mouth closed. Dean relaxed a little. “Thank you.”

Yes, the man’s neck was broken; the marks in his skin suggested that it had been done fast and expertly. From what he could feel of the angle of the break, it was probably done from behind. He assessed the weight of the man’s head against his palms, for some reason caught in an loop of thoughts of coming in here and snapping his neck. How would he have stood, to do it? Right here, like this, slightly to the side, or would he position himself directly at the man’s back? He let the head fall with a dull _thunk_ back to the desk, then pulled him upright by his shoulders. His head lolled, the body probably having passed through rigamortis by now and all the muscles gone lax, which accounted for the revolting smell in the place.

“Oh my god!” Lily gasped. Dean looked down and knew exactly what she was horrified by; the man’s eyes were gone; the sockets were blackened. There was a single splodge of congealed blood on the desk from where it must had fallen out of one of them. Dean grimaced.

“He’s been smited. Smote. Smitten. What the hell is the past tense of ‘smite’ anyway?” Dean bristled. “Come here and help me check something.”

“He’s… what?” she gasped. She had recoiled all the way to the corner of the room. Dean sighed. He pulled the guys chair out, his ankles dragging along the floor. He slumped onto the carpet and Dean groaned. Lily whimpered.

“Angels smite demons and shit. There’s a bunch of light and they get burned inside out,” he summarised. She nodded, still disturbed. He watched her for a moment to see if she was going to come back over to him, but she didn’t. He crouched down and yanked up the guy’s trouser leg, pulling off his shoe with the other hand. He pulled down the stock.

“Ugh,” Lily complained from the other side of the room. The man’s ankle was swollen and a dead purple-grey. Dean’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Yeah. He was dead when we got here,” Dean confirmed. Lily’s eyes widened impossibly further.

“But… but he spoke to me,” she squeaked. She was starting to hyperventilate, and there was no colour in her face besides the purple rings of exhaustion round her eyes, which were fixed on the corpse at Dean’s knees.

“Lily,” Dean said firmly. She turned her head but her gaze didn’t falter. “ _Lily.”_ He said it again, more loudly. This time she gulped and closed her eyes. “We can deal with this,” he told her, confidence seeping into his voice from god knows where because he certainly didn’t feel it himself.

“How?” she whispered. Dean shrugged.

“It’s what we do, it’s what we’ve always done,” he said simply. It was the truth, after all.

“But… _Cassie,”_ she gasped.

“I know, but believe me, there’s a lot worse that could happen to your son than Lucifer,” Dean told her with a laugh. Her eyes opened. She looked as horrified as before. “No. I don’t mean…” he had clearly made it worse. “Just. This is salvageable,” he concluded. Her eyes flitted up the man’s body, and then to Dean. “You hear me?”

“Yeah,” she allowed. He brow furrowed. “There was an angel here.” She realised.

“Huh?”

“You said… you said an angel burnt out his eyes, right?” she reminded him. He nodded; it was a poor grasp but it was a grasp, he supposed. “So there was one here.”

“Yeah,” he realised, and then he frowned too. Dean was fairly certain that it couldn’t have been Castiel on account of him spending the night curled up on the floor of their room, apparently unconscious. When he woke up he could barely move without gasping in pain, so even if he’d been able to stay on his feet long enough to do this, Dean would have heard him getting here. On top of that, if he was still an angel (which Dean doubted) he didn’t have enough mojo to even heal himself, let alone smite anything. Dean doubted he could have made it all the way to the office here without collapsing.

“Mom?” Bobby’s voice, small and concerned, cut through Dean’s concentration like a steak knife through butter. Lily’s head whipped up, and she was completely refocused onto her son. “There’s something wrong with Jess.”

She was locked in the bathroom.

“Honey, please let me in,” Sam was saying to her. He didn’t turn to look at Lily and Dean when they entered. He rattled the handle.

“Go away dad!” she yelled from inside.

“Jess?” Lily called.

“Leave me alone!” she called. Sam let go of the handle and raised his hands in defeat.

“She won’t come out,” he told Lily in monotone.

“I can see that,” she replied icily. Sam looked at the floor.

“Jess, sweetheart, please. I just need to see you’re alright, and then I can go,” Lily told her softly, resting her forehead against the door. It was quiet for a moment.

“Uncle Dean?” she asked. Lily looked over at Dean, frowning.

“I’m here,” Dean called, stepping a little closer. Bobby was perched on the end of one of the two double beds, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, fixated on the game boy in his hands. The sight made Dean’s skin crawl, for some reason. Bobby was not meant for this.

“I. I’m scared,” she admitted.

“That’s okay baby, we’re all scared,” Lily said automatically. Dean’s eyes flicked back to Bobby for a moment, and then up at Sam, who was gaunt.

“Dean?” Jess called.

“Yeah?” Dean replied. He heard the squeak of skin against enamel and the pad of her feet on the tiles. The door pressed against it’s frame.

“I’m really, really scared,” she replied, her voice much closer but much quieter. “No! I want to talk to him!” Jess hissed.

“Who did you say that to?” Lily asked immediately. Silence.

“Dean?”

“Still here,” he assured her.

“Why did… why did Jimmy say yes to Castiel?” she whispered, the words muffled. Dean wondered if she was speaking right into the crack beside the door. Bobby’s Gameboy bleeped in defeat and he tutted. The springs of the bed creaked as he flung himself back onto it.

“He, uh…” Dean started, but couldn’t finish.

“Because he didn’t understand what it would mean,” Cas’ voice, deep and husky, surprised but relieved Dean. He looked at him, drinking in the sight of him like he’d been wandering a desert and Cas was a glimmering oasis. His blue eyes were dull, and he was clinging to the doorway of the entrance to Sam and Lily’s room like he was struggling to stay upright. Sam moved forward instantly and helped him over to the bed, and Dean’s mouth went dry again. Why hadn’t that been his response? Why did it feel like his feet had sprouted roots and they were anchoring to the ground as he looked at him, mussed up hair and pale face, watching Dean with reserved concern.

“What does it mean?” Jess asked, very quietly. Castiel looked at Dean, smiling sadly.

“Giving everything you have to give up to something that doesn’t understand how much you’re giving them,” Cas replied. Dean swallowed and ducked his head, his eyes stinging. “Michael,” Cas said, his tone disapproving. “You can’t have her,” he said firmly. Of course; if the cage was destroyed then it wasn’t just Lucifer that had been freed, but Michael too. The lights flickered. Dean felt a something, like a pull in his chest, and anger seethed in his veins. The sensation was odd but impossible not to indulge, and he felt his fists clench and his lip pull back like he was snarling. It only lasted a moment, though, then it seemed to burst. The light flared bright and the glass shattered, tiny shards and sparks of electricity raining down onto the carpet. Dean cringed away from it. Bobby yelped.

Cas gasped, his shoulders slumping forward as the resolve drained out of him.

“Cas!” Dean tore against the roots in his feet and moved towards him, making it to about three feet away until he couldn’t move any more. “Cas,” he croaked.

“I’m… fine…” Cas gasped. The latch on the bathroom door clicked and Dean whirled around. Jess was peering around it, her face stained with tears. She met Dean’s eye for a second then darted out of the bathroom and into his arms.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, running a hand over the back of her head. She whimpered and stepped out of the embrace. Lily folded her into another.

“Baby, baby,” she cooed, rocking from side to side. Jess stared at Dean over her mother’s shoulder.

“You were in hell,” she whispered. Dean nodded. Her lip quivered. She looked at Castiel. “And you.”

Dean looked over at Cas too; he seemed to have recovered a little. “Yes,” he managed. Dean took the last few steps towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. Cas shivered at the touch and met Dean’s eye. Dean dropped his hand. “Michael won’t bother you again,” Cas said, and although he sounded hurt and quiet, his voice was certain.

“How’d you figure on that?” Sam asked, piping up suddenly from his glowering in the corner of the room, coming forward finally to stand over his partner and daughter, a hand falling onto each of their matching auburn heads.

“I…” Cas frowned, then winced, his hand flying to his head. “ _Jimmy,”_ he groaned.

“Wh-what?” Dean stammered. Cas clenched his jaw, his hand darting out and grabbing a fistful of Dean’s t-shirt. He was panting through his gritted teeth. His grip on the cotton got tighter and tighter until first his hand then his entire arm was shaking, then he gasped again, fingers seeming to spasm open rather than be willed to come out of their fist.

“Its fine,” Cas panted, letting his hand fall to the mattress. Dean stared at it, the palm up turned, the spaces between the fingers beckoning for Dean’s to slide in and fill the spaces, but instead he dug his nails into his palms until it hurt. Dean’s eyes were drawn to the crescent shaped scars on Cas’ – Jimmy’s – palms.

He was wearing Sam’s shirt, Dean realised, the one he’d been wearing over the t-shirt he’s got on now. For some reason that made Dean angry. He touched a finger to one of the scars and Cas curled his hand around it. Dean’s breath hitched, gaze momentarily flitting up to Cas’ eyes only to find them closed. He was breathing heavily, sweet air coming from his parted lips. He was hurt, still, broken. Dean stepped away from him.

“He just disappeared,” Jess was saying to her father.

“Just like that?” Sam pressed, his expression sceptical. Jess nodded earnestly. Sam turned to Dean. “It doesn’t seem right,” Sam said. Dean glanced back at Cas, then at Jess still swaddled against her mother’s chest.

“No,” Dean agreed. Michael needed permission to enter your body but he was a pestering son of a bitch when you turned him down. Had a habit of trailing around after you in the manner of the world’s most almighty pain in the ass.

“I think that Michael would resent that term,” Cas muttered. Dean frowned.

“What term?” Sam asked, perplexed. Cas frowned too, his head tilting to the side and making Dean’s heart leap. The confusion only coloured Cas’ face for a moment, though, before it dissipated, the tiny movement enough to make him wince and gasp in sudden pain.

“Cas?” Dean asked, his voice tiny in the room, which seemed suddenly huge, and Cas very far away.

“I’m… fine,” Cas breathed, barely audible. Sam’s mouth was a hard line.

“Why do you keep calling Jimmy ‘Cas’?” Bobby asked, apparently oblivious to Cas’ pain despite his biting gasps.

“Bobby,” Sam warned, his voice low and firm. Bobby frowned; he was just a kid. None of this made sense to him, not the way it made sense to Dean and Sam, or even to Jess. His green eyes were wide and uncomprehending and he stared at Dean with intensity.

“Where’s Cassie?” he asked pointedly. Lily sighed and finally released her hold on Jess.

“Bobby, buddy,” Sam said, looking over at Dean like he would step in and do this for him, which he wasn’t sure he _could_ do. He’d not been told about the supernatural, not really; it was something he grew up with, a constant underpinning narrative backdrop to his life. He looked after Sammy because their dad had to go out hunting the demon that killed their mother, and Dean felt like he’d known it all his life. He couldn’t imagine _not_ knowing. Part of him wanted to silence Sam, to prevent him from shattering Bobby’s ignorant view of the world, to make sure they did everything they could do in their power to carry on the way they had done, doing whatever it took to keep him in the dark. He didn’t want them to grow up like he did, like Sam did; they had their childhoods stolen by their parent’s involvement in that shit. He hated to think of Sam and himself doing that to these kids, these innocent, blessedly ignorant kids.

If they’d told them, tried to explain what had happened, they wouldn’t have believed them. If everything had stayed shut away like Cas had meant it to, even if they believed them now, they wouldn’t in a few years. Real, important people in Sam and Dean’s life would be reduced to ‘Santa Claus’ to them; Bobby, Kevin… Gabriel. Cas. Sam and Dean had saved the world but there was not a chance in hell that kids growing up never seeing the supernatural would believe it. They’d consider them whackos. They couldn’t have told them.

“Of course you couldn’t,” Cas whispered.

“What?” Dean asked. Cas’ blue eyes searched him.

“Of course you couldn’t have told them,” Cas elaborated.

“I didn’t say that out loud,” Dean insisted. Cas frowned.

“Say what out loud?” Lily asked.

“Dean?” Sam asked.

Dean barely heard them; he was staring at Cas. Into him. Into those too blue eyes. Cas looked at him knowingly, softly, and Dean’s mouth fell open just a little. _You’ve got something right there_ , Dean thought, but it was more than a thought. It was like he could hear Jimmy whispering it right into his ear, but Cas hadn’t moved, not at all. Cas was stiff like he’d heard it too.

“Jimmy?” Dean whispered.

“He’s in here,” Cas answered, and Dean stooped forwards, until his head was pressed against Cas’, touching from the eyebrows to the tips of their noses.

“Jimmy,” Dean breathed. “ _Jimmy._ ”


	21. Headlights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains upsetting scenes. Proceed with caution.

Years and years ago, in days barely remembered to Dean, watercolour memories of his childhood, his mother gave him a ring. It wasn’t fancy, not the kind of thing you’d hold on to. It probably got left in the house that night, when she was murdered. It was a puzzle ring made of three intersecting metal bands. He remembered how the edges wore and faded from silver to copper after a couple of days; it might have even come out of a Christmas cracker or something like that, or a joke shop – Dean didn’t’ really remember. But he did remember sitting on the bottom of the stairs with it, trying to pull the bands apart, and his mother crouching in front of him, watching.

He could never do it, no matter how hard he tried; he just could not get the circles of metal to break away from their counter parts. He tried everything; pulling; twisting them in and out of each other; pressing them between his palms. He even jammed them between his teeth. Nothing worked. The rings stayed determinedly interlocked no matter what he did.

Dean sat motionless behind the wheel of the car for a few moments before he could muster the conviction to actually put the key in the ignition. There had been a demon waiting for them here, as though Lucifer had known they would need to stop as soon as they felt it was safe. He wasn’t convinced that the streetlamps were on over the roads because they’d escape his field of destruction anymore; in fact, he was almost certain that it was all part of the plan. Breaking the phone had been, clearly; part of this pantomime of grievances that had got them this far. The problem was that he couldn’t work out what the next step would be, where this path Lucifer has been herding them down would lead them.

His ultimate goal would be the same as always, of that much it was safe to assume, but as to how he planned to achieve that, Dean couldn’t work out. Michael had smote the demon that had been waiting for them, but maybe that had been part of the plan. They had had an awful lot of cosy brotherly bonding time in the cage before Cas destroyed it. That’s another thing. Cas _destroyed_ the cage. Now, Dean wasn’t saying the decision was malicious, but… but he couldn’t say with confidence that it _wasn’t_ malicious at all. He hadn’t been conscious enough to explain, slipping in and out of lucidity. What did that mean in itself? What was wrong with him? And that’s not even considering whatever the hell happened when he’d seemed to read Dean’s mind for a moment without even realising that he’d done it.

Dean wrapped his fingers around the plastic wheel and took a deep, steadying breath, and fully started the car. In a moment he was about to get back on the road again. He paused, car’s nose poking over the tarmac, and glanced at Sam in the passenger seat. To the left, in the early morning light, the streetlights were dim orange orbs that dotted a line through the mist that consumed the landscape. On the right, back towards Badger, the sky hung grey and oppressive, dark and looming. About a mile from where they were, the clouds seemed to actually touch the ground. As he watched, a flash of lightening flashed like a varicose vein of light on the cloud’s billowing charcoal skin.  “We have to get Cassie,” Sam said.

Behind them, Cas half stirred beside Lily. Jess sat stiffly right at the back of the car, Bobby leaning against her shoulder with his eyelids half-drooping already as though he was about to fall asleep. He didn’t want to be bringing any of them, except Lily, but what choice did they have? Lucifer has already made it clear that kids are easy to convince, and Michael’s already been after Jess once. They were are risk now. Dean couldn’t protect them by trying to keep them away from it all anymore. They were almost as involved as he was.

They drove in silence, and in the moments when he blinked, Dean could hear long ago tunes blasting from the radio of the impala, and saw Sam slumped in the passenger seat next to him – not the broken father, or the happy father he’d been until three days ago. That angry punk-ass college kid with his Disney channel hair-cut, the one who swore he didn’t want to be part of this but always ended up in the middle of it. Even now.

Before long they hit the cloud wall, and they couldn’t see more than a car’s length in front of them. Dean slowed the family-friendly monstrosity he was driving to a crawl, the engine uncomfortably biting in first gear, gurgling away beneath their seats. Soft white flakes twirled and fell against the windscreen, gathering on top of the wipers folded at its base. “Snow?” Jess asked, voice trembling. Dean wound down the windows, and the outside world smelt like a bonfire, the smoky, woodiness underpinned by something sour and sulphurous. He wrinkled his nose. It felt cold enough for Jess to be right; the breeze gnawed at Dean’s flesh through his clothes. In his periphery he watched Sam stick his hand out, palm up facing, until a flake landed on his finger. He pressed it against his palm and peered at it. “No,” he said, grimly, “it’s ash.”

“Ash?” Lily repeated, her voice hushed to mimic it.

“It looks like someone smudged out everything,” Bobby mumbled, insightfully, and he leaned up to put his head out of the car. Dean took that as a cue to wind the windows up and he did. Bobby had a smudge of grey on his nose, and for some reason Dean immediately thought of Ron Weasley on his first journey to Hogwarts with his corned beef sandwiches. “Where are we?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know,” Lily told him. Dean glanced at the clock; he had no visual points of reference as for how close they were to Badger, so he could only estimate from how long they’d been driving.

“Close to home, now,” Dean clarified. If they were going at a normal speed, they’d have been there in less than half an hour. Dean glanced at Sam, tight jawed and close lipped beside him, but didn’t dare take even a cursory glance in the rear view mirror at the rest of his passengers. He eased up into second gear, pushing nineteen miles rather than ten, but then the car hit something with a soft thud so he slowed back down again.

“What was that?” Jess squeaked.

“Nothing,” Dean assured her, but the thud and following roll of resistance had been familiar. It was a dead body. The car wobbled as the back wheel rolled onto it and back to the tarmac. Dean shuddered.

“Uncle Dean?” Jess whispered.

“Yeah?”

“There’s something behind us,” she explained. Dean glanced in the mirror; a vague humanoid shape was behind them in the ash-induced fog. He put the car into third.

“Dean!” Lily gasped as more of them seemed to appear. They were running, figured bobbing and limping but keeping easy pace with the car even though they were going at least thirty; the engine whined, but Dean didn’t want to go up into fourth because he couldn’t _see_ anything. “Oh my god!” Lily cried quietly; the shapes were looming, larger but more indistinct, their forms filling the back windows of the car and reaching with long, blurry and obscured fingers for the car. Bobby screamed. Dean slammed his foot down and shot through fourth, fifth-

“DEAN STOP!” Sam yelled, grabbing the hand brake and yanking it up. The wheels squealed on the tarmac and through the windows and over the smell of the fog Dean could make out the stench of burning rubber as his head whipped back from the rear of the car to the front, where the fog had miraculously lifted enough to expose the small, slight figure of a child, staring at their on coming vehicle with a look of acceptance in it’s small, white face. Dean’s foot pumped uselessly on the foot brake, but they were still skidding forwards on already halted tyres, and there was nothing he could do. He yanked on the steering wheel but it was as though it had locked into place, determined to go forwards, slower every second but not slowing fast enough not to hit the kid.

The impact came with a dull thud and a judder of the wheels.

A heartbeat later the car halted and Dean, Sam and Lily all flung open their doors at once, leaping from their seats as fast as they could and out onto the tarmac.

The layer of ash on the road muffled their shoes as they ran towards the sprawled figure on the ground. Her golden hair was pooled around her. Ash greedily absorbed red blood, the result making it appear as though she was lying on a red carpet. One slender leg lay perfect and un-marked upon the ash, but the other was scarcely a leg at all. A small green boot at the end was the only thing that suggested the existence of a limb there at all.

“Mom?”

“Get back in the car!” Lily yelled. Sam reached, large hands almost the full width of the kid’s back, and pulled her gently onto her back. Icy blue eyes stared unseeing at the sky. On her flowery dress there was a white name tag, ‘Lola’ crayoned on in careful five-year-old child’s script, a shaky drawing of a bee used to fill the space that had been left at the end.

“Fuck,” Dean gasped. “FUCK!” he yelled.

“She was in Cassie’s class at school,” Sam whispered.

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, over and over.

With a shaking hand, Sam closed her wide eyes. Lily was sliding out of her coat. Dean couldn’t understand why at first, but then she wrapped the tiny body in it. “There,” she whispered. “She could be sleeping.”

Sam was nodding. Dean couldn’t breathe. He got to his feet, dizzy, and walked towards the edge of the road, hands on his head. From her he could see the street sign, ‘Welcome to Badger, MN’. The ash seemed to have got thicker, coating his throat as he tried desperately to get air into his lungs. The more he gasped, the worst it got, and he blanched, arcing forwards to throw up nothing but bile onto the ashy sidewalk, which reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for days. In the distance, he could hear something like the beat of a drum, but he wasn’t sure if that was just his heart beating.

Music flared up behind him, as well as the alarm on the car, and Dean whipped around. The lights had come on, flashing bright white, red and orange shafts into the ashy air. The music was louder than it should it have been, seeming to feel the space around Dean; Elvis Presley’s ‘Devil in Disguise’. Dean started to walk back towards it, when to his right he heard a high pitched scream. He started, towards that instead, only for another to start up behind him. Soon they were everywhere, long and constant, the music getting louder and louder but never drowning them out. Dean covered his hands with his ears. The cacophony silenced at once.

Sam was still on the floor, but Lily was on her feet, running back to the car. She yanked open the door and screamed, leaning into the vehicle. Dean leapt forwards, soon by her side, and staring into the car which was… empty.

Completely, entirely empty.

Lily was gone, running down the road. “Jess! Bobby!” she called. No response. “Jess!”

“Cas?” Dean yelled instead. “Jimmy!”

A muffled groan, fists against metal. Dean’s heart thumped; the trunk.

He ran round to the back of the car. In his panic and the continued thumping from inside the car, it took him a few attempts to find the button that released the trunk’s door. Terrified blue eyes met him as the door rose and arms flew out, clutching desperately. “ _Dean,”_ Cas gasped.

“Thank god, oh fucking hell, thank god,” Dean said into his shoulder.

“The kids!” Lily said hysterically. “Where the fuck in hell are my kids?”

“Lucifer,” Cas said, falling out of the trunk and onto Dean, the sudden imposition of his full weight almost making Dean topple over. He smelled like TCP.

“They’re gone, Sam, they’re gone. They’re all gone,” Lily said to Sam, who must have been behind Dean because Lily gave the impression of looking right through him.

“We’ll find them, we can do this,” Sam said with certainty. Dean clutched at Cas.

“How can you say that?” Lily spluttered, shaking her head. “How can you keep saying that? How are you so fucking sure?”

“Because we _have_ to do this,” Sam muttered simply, coming from behind Dean to rest a hand on Lily’s shoulder. She shook her head.

“Why didn’t they take _him?”_ she spat, nodding towards Cas.

“They… couldn’t,” he replied, weakly. Dean shifted his weight so he was supporting him a little more comfortably. The weight was familiar, but made him queasy. “Because… of Dean,” he explained further.

“Dean?” Sam asked. Dean shrugged. Cas’ eyes rolled back and their lids fluttered as he breathed through clenched teeth for a moment.

“He keeps… me… here…” Cas barely managed to say. “Because… of Jimmy. Because…” with great effort, Cas lifted his hand to Dean’s shoulder. Through the thin fabric of his shirt his scar tingled. Cas’ eyes glistened, then fluttered closed. “Of this,” he said, and his head lolled forwards onto Dean’s chest. He went limp against him. For a moment, Dean staggered backwards, then he could hold him, easily. He looked over at Lily, who was fuming with anger, her eyes flitting from Dean to the empty car and back onto Cas.

“You kept _him_ here?” she spat, her chest heaving.

“That’s not what he meant,” Sam growled, dropping his hand from her shoulder. Dean clung onto Cas’ lifeless form, pressing his eyes shut for a moment when he accidentally caught sight of the jacket-wrapped bundle on the roadside.

“That’s what he s _aid,”_ Lily hissed.

“Dean doesn’t have magical powers or some shit, Lily,” Sam grumbled. Lily pinched her eyes shut.

“I know, Sam. I’m not an idiot,” she replied.

“Lily-”

“Don’t start, Sam,” she warned quietly. “I don’t want to know. I don’t care,” she whispered. She opened her eyes, looking right into Dean’s. “I just want my kids back,” she said determinedly. Dean nodded once, firmly, and Lily took a deep, steeling breath, pulling herself up tall.

Sam helped Dean carry to the car; they were still a long way from the house, and Dean was convinced that was where they were supposed to go. That was where ‘Manny’ was, after all, so it would have made the most sense. Dean pulled both of the seatbelts awkwardly across Cas’ horizontal body and Sam climbed in to the very back of the car behind him, where Jess and Bobby had been sat before. He picked up the Gameboy resting in the small cubby in by what had been Bobby’s seat and clutched it in both hands. Dean wondered what he’d done with Cassie’s backpack after he’d pulled the note out of it.

Dean climbed round to the driver’s seat and closed the door at the same moment Lily closed the door opposite. They exchanged a glance before Dean started the car running again, that told Dean everything he would ever need to know about her, if he hadn’t known it before.

The engine spluttered, but didn’t come to life. He tried again; it whined, then nothing. “Shit,” he groaned.

“What’s wrong with it?” Lily asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Dean told her. They had gas and there couldn’t be anything wrong with the engine. The brakes were probably shot after their abysmal emergency stop, but that would be the only damage it would have caused. He slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel in frustration and behind them Cas gasped awake, straining against his bonds.

“Dean! Dean!” he cried, panicked. Dean twisted in his seat as far as he could, catching Cas’ panic stricken eyes.

“You’re alright! You’re here, you’re with me,” Dean said firmly, and he hoped calmly. Cas stopped straining but didn’t relax, his breaths not slowing one bit. Dean tried to reach to put a hand on his shoulder, but could only manage his fingertips. With a low curse he jolted around and got out of the car, only to get back in beside Cas’ head. Without really thinking about it he ran his hand straight into Cas’ hair, and he shuddered. “It’s alright,” Dean soothed.

“Dean?” Sam asked.

“I think we’re supposed to walk,” Lily explained.

Dean looked down at Cas, who had closed his eyes again.

“We can do this,” he told him. Dean had made him stay, he said, and though he didn’t understand what that meant, it had to count for something.

“Dean…” Cas breathed.

_“When he’s afraid, he calls your name.”_

_Dean stiffened. “Don’t tell me that.”_

_“Why not?” Jimmy sighed. “You must know.”_

He did know. Of course he knew. How couldn’t he have known. Whose name did _he c_ all when _he_ was afraid? Back then at least. Not now.

“Jimmy,” Dean whispered softly. Cas opened his eyes then, and the hurt in them was plain and burning. It cut right into Dean’s chest. “He’s in there, right?” Dean asked him. Cas nodded. Dean took a deep breath. “Jimmy, I love you,” Dean whispered. Cas shuddered.

“Please,” Cas begged. “Don’t.”

“We can do this,” Dean said, with certainty. He looked up, turning his gaze to Sam, where he was leaning forward, his chin practically resting on the back of the chair Cas was lying across.

“We have to,” Sam said simply.

“We will.”


	22. On Your Sleeve

Figures moved, wind and smoke, vague shapes of creatures in the corners of their eyes as they walked. Lily stood ahead, her stride determined, Sam half a beat behind, Dean several feet. Cas’ arm was slung over his neck, most of his weight on his shoulders. Every now and then Cas would miss a step and Dean would almost stumble, but each time managed to grip Cas’ weight tighter, arm cinching his waist. The ash fog scuttled as pieces of litter floated past, little ghosts of before; crisp packets and leaves from trees they couldn’t see, only hear their muffled rustles in the breeze that chilled constant. There were cars parked half on the pavements, their doors open wide. Dean tried to hot wire a few of them but knew before he started that it wouldn’t work; these cars weren’t broken, they’d been halted. Lily was right. They were supposed to walk this road, really walk it, so their feet ache and their muscles burn. This was a punishment, a challenge. A mockery in pantomime, played before their eyes. ‘ _It’s behind you!_ ’ the audience would cry, but the ghosties and ghoulies jump out of site before they can be caught by anyone on the stage.

When they reached the house, it was getting dark. The front door is open, the light on in the hall. The floor was covered in a layer of dust several inches thick, brown-grey and obvious for what it was because of the fluorescent bulb above it. Lily glanced back, and Sam nodded. Dean braced Cas tighter to his side and he gasped, his head dropping down to the ground. Dean freezes and tries to will his fingers to clutch Cas’ shoulder, to say _it’s all okay,_ but they won’t move, because here is the spot where he held Jimmy’s hand, and this is the house where he loved him.

“Wait!” Dean plead without meaning to. Lily hesitated in her advance, glaring accusatorily over her shoulder at him, past Sam. “What if it’s a trap?”

Lily closed her eyes for a second. “What else can we do?” said Sam.

“Cassie,” Lily said. “Cassie and Bobby and Jess,” she told Dean. Dean clenched his jaw and looked away, at the ground, at the blankness of the ash fogged world, at anywhere that wasn’t Cas or Sam or Lily. Seeing them stung. He wanted to gouge out his eyes. Cas’ heat at his side was un-ignorable, a constant reminder, whispering. _I did it, all of it, for you._

“Sam,” Lily said, her voice low and steady in a deliberate way that made Dean’s skin writhe like it was made of maggots. Sam glanced back at Dean, more of the pantomime. This was the part where they pick off the good guys one by one, until there’s only the one left behind.  Sam entered first, his body briefly filling the doorway, then Dean and Cas together, conjoined. Their footsteps are silenced by the dust. Lily is frozen, and with a cursory glance Dean knows why.

Their house is filled with children; they perch on every surface. They wear backpacks and carry lunchboxes, a sea of uneven pig tails and ruffled up bowl cuts, fringes hanging low over brows. They filled the sofas, lined their backs. They practically papered the walls. They stood upon the arms of chairs and cluster in hot breathing masses around the fire place. The air was hot and still, the smell of damp hands and day old clothes was sour and clammy. They all watched, their faces blank; at least two hundred tiny heads angled towards them, some minutely, others twisting as far as they could go, still more further than they should have. All barely blinking, all stock still. All with wide eyes black and glistening; eight balls; black outs; super-dilation.

“You’re better than this Castiel.” said a tiny voice from the corner. Dean’s head whipped round but too slow; the mouth that spoke the words is shut again by the time he has turned in its direction.

“You’re not one of them,” another voice from somewhere else.

“We forgive you, Castiel,” said another.

“The way he never will.”

“Shut up,” Cas growled, straightening, dropping his arm from Dean’s shoulders and swaying a little as he took back his own weight.

“Mia?” Lily said, her voice shaking. There is a whispered hush; all heads turn simultaneously to face her as she leaned down over a girl with a brunette plait. “Mia, it’s Lily, Cassie’s mommy,” she told her. She rested hands on the small girl’s shoulders.

“Cassie,” said the girl.

“ _Cassie! Cassie_!” voices whispered, overlapping, the sound like a stream. Lily released her shoulders and staggered back, bumping into Sam. He steadied her.

“With the angels now,” said the girl.

“ _With us, with us, sleeping_.”

“You aren’t angels, you little fuckers, you’re demons,” Dean growled.

“Sleeping?” Lily said, twisting to look up at Sam. “What if they’re upstairs?” her eyes darted to Dean’s in desperation. He has nothing for her, no words, no help that will anything. “ _Angels, angels_ ,” whispered the room, the rustle of dead leaves.

“We keep the company of angels,” the demon girl said, eliciting another round of whispers.

“Enough with the chanting!” Dean spat. Lily turned, facing the doorway, then glanced back at Dean, one thing clear in her eyes; _distract them._ Dean nodded.

“The righteous man, he bleeds for us, his angel frees us all.”

“ _Frees us all, angels, all_ ,” the room hissed. “ _Castiel, Castiel_.”

“He gripped you tight and raised you from perdition, as he raised us all.”

“ _All of us, angels, all._ ”

“No,” Cas groaned, shaking his head. Dean grasped his shoulder. Cas’ face was pale, his lips pressed into a hard line. The room was cold but Cas was warm to the touch, so hot it almost felt like he was burning Dean’s hand, but he couldn’t let go. He stared into Cas’ eyes, and something seemed to click; a little truth there that he didn’t want to admit slipped between them.

“Lily!” Sam gasped, but she had darted free of Sam’s grasp.

“ _The Prince, the Prince._ ”

“Dammit, Sammy!” Dean yelped. Her feet kicked up dust clouds, the smell like death and stillness, and they all moved together, the children; the demons. They shrank back against the walls. Dean darted forwards first. He was trying to run but on the dust his feet found little purchase, so instead he leaped, bounded through the door. He burst into the kitchen, his heart in his throat. _Don’t look at the place you last saw him_. _Don’t look at the place he was dead._ Jimmy sprawled on his bathroom floor, a pool of blood expanding, a red waterfall from his arms. Dean hadn’t seen that, so why could he see it now? The blood mixed with the dust, like the girl’s blood had mixed with ash, and Dean felt sick again, dizzy. A hand gripped his forearm and shattered the memories, and he was just looking at a patch of dusty ground. He turned expecting Sam, but found Cas, teeth gritted.

“Come on,” Cas insisted, and Dean could only blink. _This is your problem Dean: you have no faith._

Sam was already half way up the stairs; his shoes cut chunks into the dust carpet. It fell in clumps like hairballs or choking gluts of phlegm. Cas gripped Dean’s arm but gave the sense that he was the one being held up. Dean led him up to the second floor, and halts as though immobilised.

“Dean?” Cas murmured, because of course he doesn’t understand what’s wrong. It’s the house; how had he not felt it’s wrongness, not felt it seeping from the wood? The whole damn place was infected with Lucifer and they’d been living in it for months. Cassie’s bedroom door, the dust clung in shapes and forms, pentagrams and indecipherable messages in unspeakable tongues. The paint was stripped from the walls. The hallway was wider; it breathed, sucked, gasped at them. The house that Dean had been patching up, painting loving; it was never on their side. Up the paintwork thin black veins climbed like ivy or frost furls. The floorboards creaked. Around the painted wards on the window was a hair’s breadth of un-rotten wood.

“They’re not here!” Lily yelled from Bobby’s room. She appeared, wild eyed and horror-stricken. Sam was stood at Cassie’s door, yanking at the handle.

“It won’t open!” Sam growled, and rammed into it with his shoulder.

“Daddy!” cried a child’s voice from inside.

“Bobby? Cassie? Jess?” Sam called.

“Daddy! Help!” too deranged to be identified, the tiny voice cried.

“We’ll get you out of there!” Lily cried back.

“Mommy!” Bobby’s voice, definitely his voice. Dean’s heart surged with relief.

“It’s okay, I’m here!” Lily told him with firm reassurance. Sam slammed into the door hard with his shoulder, but it barely made a sound.

“Jess is hurt!” Bobby told them. The relief was washed away and replaced with panic. He couldn’t think straight, he didn’t want to. He yanked his arm from Cas’ hand and strode forwards, combining his weight and force with Sam’s against the door. It shouldn’t hold against it but it does.

 “It’s a trap,” said Cas, unnecessarily. Of course it was a trap.

 “ _Angels, angels,”_ the children chanted, their voices on the stairs growing louder.

“Get back from me!” Cas yelled, his voice wavering, and Dean’s head whipped up and he stopped, leaving Sam to pound against the door alone for one pulse. Cas was half slumped against the wall, his hands raised against the tide of black eyes that approached him. He was looking away, but his eyes weren’t screwed shut. They watched, they searched desperately for Dean’s, and with a gulp, Dean allowed himself to meet it them. “Dean!” _Dean and I do share a more profound bond. I wasn’t going to mention it._ Like hell he needed to, like hell he ever would. The air hung still. The door slammed open with a spitting flash of light and Sam fell through the door way.

“Bobby!” Lily yelled and leapt towards the doorway as Dean jumped from it. He reached, and his hand met Cas’ wrist with a sparking sting like static electricity. Cas fell forward and Dean did too, but they met in the middle, suspended, Dean’s arms around Cas’ shoulders, caught in a gasp. With a whispering hiss and a clot of thin smoke the children, their black eyes, were gone. “Jess?” Lily said brokenly.

Dean pulled himself up straight and brought Cas with him. “You okay?”

“F-fine,” Cas managed. Dean didn’t drop his looped arms for a long, lingering moment, until Cas hissed a breath through his teeth. When Dean let go, there were smudges of blood on his arms. With a surge of guilt he remembered the lash marks that covered him.

“Jessica Winchester you get up right now!” Lily commanded. Dean’s head snapped up.

In the bedroom Jess was sprawled face down. Her hair fanned around her head, the way it used to go when she went swimming. Chalk drawn wings extended from her, the marks uneasy and childlike, drawn with instruments held in balled fists. Sam darted to her side, “she’s breathing,” Sam said. Lily pulled her into her lap.

“Jessie,” Lily cooed. Jess didn’t so much as flicker her eyelids. Lily tucked a strand of bright hair from her face in behind her ear. “Jess,” she said softly.

“Bobby,” Sam said, with relief. He was cowered in the corner of the room. Dean remembered him looking on as they cradled Cassie, eyes wide with fear just like they were now. Had Bobby seen things he didn’t want to tell them? Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “It’s alright, she’s not dead,” Sam assured him, as though those words should be comfort. ‘Not dead’ is far from ‘alright’. None the less, Bobby crept forwards from the corner and flinging himself into his father’s arms, pressing his face into his shoulder.

There was a soft groan and Dean turned to see Cas gripping to the doorframe, teeth bared and gritted. For a horrible moment, Dean is reminded of when the leviathans took Cas’ body as their own, but it passes fast. “Before. When I was… down there. You said… you said you were there,” Cas panted. “You said you were there if I was listening,” Cas whispered. Dean stared at him. “Dean,” Cas pleaded.

“Yeah,” Dean croaked. Cas closed his eyes for a moment.

“I thought it… I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me,” Cas admitted.

“No,” Dean admitted in exchange. Cas nodded tiredly.

“I think it was a trap from the beginning,” he breathed.

“What was a trap?” Sam asked as Bobby left his embrace to curl against his slowly rocking mother and sister. Lily’s eyes were closed, her lips moving as though she was speaking although she didn’t seem to be making any sounds.

“Everything,” Cas shook his head. “It was a trap and I walked right into it, and I’m sorry,” he muttered, squeeze his already closed eyes even more tightly shut. “I tried to make things _right,_ ” Cas groaned. “There should not have to be hunters,” Cas growled, eyes snapping open, and furious. “Good men, good _humans_ should not have to die for this needless, useless cause,” he spat.

“We protect people,” Dean muttered.

“You do not understand; you should not have to protect them,” Cas said desperately. There is a long moment where there doesn’t seem to be any sound at all, and the only thing that Dean can see is the endless blue of Cas’ eyes, Jimmy’s fucking eyes that Cas is behind, caught stars poised forever on the edge of a black hole.

“But we do, and that’s… well it’s shitty but it’s got to be done,” Dean contested.

“I don’t need you to save me Cas.”

 “It’s the only thing I know, and I can’t do it!” Cas shrieked, loud, hysterical, jarring. Lily’s head whipped up from Jess, her arms a cage around her daughter, protecting her.  Cas fell to his knees. “All I have ever tried to do is save, you, Dean!”

“I don’t need saving! _They_ need saving!” Dean spat back at him, nodding towards the children in Lily’s arms.

“It would have saved them too, it would have fixed it. All of those wrongs in your childhood, Dean, they wouldn’t have had to feel them,” Cas muttered brokenly. “And you would have been happy, you could have been _happy,”_ Cas choked.

“Happy?” Dean repeated. “You… you tried to do some bullshit suicidal seal thing because you wanted to make me _happy?”_

“To save you, Dean. You needed to be happy,” Cas breathed, barely saying the words at all. _You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that I believed you to be._

“Cas…” Dean said. Cas lowered his head, cringing at the sound of his name. “Cas,” Dean said again. “Look at me,” Dean commanded. Cas lifted his head.

_“Look at me!” Jimmy commanded. “Who am I?”_

_“Jimmy Novak,” Dean answered. Jimmy growled in frustration. He turned around, and Dean couldn’t look anywhere but the two thick scars over his shoulder blades. He turned back to face Dean._

_“Tell me who I am Dean,” Jimmy said softly. He stepped closer very slowly, allowing Dean to drink in every inch of him; the scars on his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the soft pink of his nipples, the undulating contours of his muscles, the nape of his neck. “Tell me,” he whispered, just inches from him now. Dean was having to crane his neck to look up at him, his face a hand’s breadth from being buried in his crotch._

_“Jim-” Dean began but was cut off by a face-full of Jimmy’s pants. Jimmy’s fingers brushed the top of his nose and unbuttoned his trousers. He shimmied and stepped back maybe half a foot and his pants were gone. He stepped back again until he was sat on the end of the bed. Dean followed him mindlessly, a man possessed. Jimmy lay utterly still and silent as Dean ran his hands all over him, but when Dean’s hands reached for the buttons of his own shirt, Jimmy grabbed his wrists._

_“Can you see my soul?”_

"I can see your soul, Dean," Cas said, and Dean sure as hell hadn't recounted any of that out loud. 

"I..." Dean's throat seemed to have swelled shut.

In Lily's arms, Jess gasped, and all attention in the room was on her. Her eyes were open, wide and searching.

"Mom!" she gasped, and flung her arms around her mother's neck. 

"Oh god, oh fuck," Lily moaned into her daughter's shoulder. 

"Mom, we have to get out! We have to get out!" Jess squeaked desperately. "It's a trap!" 

Downstairs, the phone began to ring. Dean looked at Sam, their horrified expressions matched, but they didn't have chance to move or even respond, because just at that moment, the dust lifted off the ground, blurring the world grey and brown for a moment, right before everything went black. 


	23. From Far Away

There’s a weird disjointed moment where Dean can’t place himself in time; there’s a twisted feeling in his chest, like he’s forgotten something important. Did he forget to make Sammy’s lunch for school? Did he leave the back door open? Did he forget to eat Santa’s cookies, leaving them untouched on the hearth of the fireplace, shattering the kids’ dreams forever? He could smell something, old wood maybe, or damp leaves. Those smelled seem wrong, though he couldn’t think why. He’d forgotten something important, if he could only remember _what_ then it would make sense, but his head hurt when he tried to think about it, so he pushed them away.

In his dream, he walked along the edge of a field in snow. It was unbroken, it buckled pleasantly under his feet, which were bare, but it strangely wasn’t cold at all. He was dressed in his ratty pajama pants, the ones with the hole in the side and the pocket hanging off the back. It smelled like blueberries, but they only thinly covered the smell of outside. This frustrated him. Wouldn’t the smell just go away? It was nice there, in the warm snow. He could hear children nearby, playing, screeching with laughter. Perhaps there was a park. Was that laughter they were screeching with?

What, what, _what_ had he forgotten? It niggled at him, like a cut on the inside of his lip, the tang of blood in his mouth very real. Had he fallen? Was he hurt? Was there a fight? He was watching Sammy and then there was a dog… no… not a dog. A hellhound. Wait. That was before. That was a long time ago. That wasn’t it… or rather, it wasn’t the most important bit of it.  Sam was there, he was certain of it. Sam and Jimmy… no. Not Jimmy. Castiel. Shit. What is it that he’s missing? Where’s this little piece of –

“Rise and shine, uncle Dean,” a little voice crooned. Something touched his forehead, and the sensation was hot, jarring, then Dean realised it was pain. His eyes snapped open, but he was staring up into grey-white nothing. He spluttered. He could feel the warm snow – the ash – on his face. He sat up, whirling around. His head pounded, thrummed. It felt like his brain was attempting to squeeze itself out of his ears. The ash had fallen into his lap. Though the sky was grey, the air was no longer thick with ash-fog, and Dean could see quite a way into the distance. He couldn’t understand his location, at first, then he realised that the warped black shapes around him had been trees, once.

“Cassie?” Dean shouted, but there was no reply. He groaned and pressed a hand to his head; it came away bloody. He grimaced and smeared the stickiness against his jeans. The blood was old, maybe a couple of hours so. He groaned and clambered to his feet, stumbling a little, until he was leaning against a blackened tree just to keep himself upright. The remains of its bark crumbled under his hand.

He had no idea where he was, no sky with sun to provide him with a point of reference for that, or even to gauge the time. He pressed his eyes shut to try and dissipate the pain that had gathered in his skull. “Sam?” he called, with nothing better to do. “Lily?” still no responses came from the remains of the wood. Dean turned around on himself a few times, trying to decide which way to go. He kicked the tree; chunks of black charcoal fell from its flanks and scattered onto the bed of ash that covered the forest floor.

A warm flicker of something in his chest made him look up, and for a second he swore he could smell something sweet on the air, fruit or sugar or something like that. It was gone before he could figure it out, the pang in his chest with it. He dug his hands into his pockets, and started to walk in the direction he was facing. Every step he took made a cloud of ash rise around his feet. The bottoms of his jeans were stained pale grey. He trudged resolutely. “Sam! Lily!” he shouted, periodically, whenever he became possessed of the notion that he’d heard a twig snap in the distance.

He’d been walking for what he’d guess was an hour, when he saw a vague shape in the ashy carpet, a little mound, where the covering was thinner; heaped, almost, like someone was trying to hide something. Dean froze; he looked about himself; he couldn’t see anything. There were so many thick tree skeletons that could be used to keep people out of sight. He was unarmed, tired, in pain. He wasn’t sure he’d have the energy to make a run for it if he had to. He took a deep breath to steel himself, and carried on forwards. He touched the blackened trees as he passed them, as though for luck, and soon he was upon it; the heap in the warm grey snow.

It was a person, Dean could tell. There were small finger marks in the ash around it, hundreds upon hundreds of them, little hands that had scooped up the ash to cover him. Dean knew who it was. His tousled hair was only half covered, dark strands peeking through and making the breath catch in Dean’s throat, though that might have just been the air. He sank to his knees, with a muffled thud, and brushed the ash from Cas’ cheeks. His lips were parted, coated chalky grey, as were his teeth. His eyes had been open too; eyelashes marked the monotone gap where the ash had covered black, white, and sparkling, endless ocean blue. “Cas…” Dean choked. He lifted him, cradling him into his lap, fell forwards to rest his forehead on Cas’ chest. He clutched at him, his fingers grasping thick handfuls of his coat. He pulled back, dusted some of the ash off his tie. Wait. Dean pulled back further, and the ash was gone from Cas’ face. His eyes were closed now, and his lips too. His skin was paler than Dean remembered, his lips pink but with a hard undertone of dead, flat grey. His hair was dark brown, his face cleanly shaved. With a blink the ash was gone from his body too, and with a gasp Dean realised that this was how he’d looked when he’d met him.

As soon as the recognition hit, Cas’ eyes snapped open, fixed on Dean’s. they were wrong; not Cas’ eyes, not Jimmy’s eyes. The pupils was pinpricks, the blue too flat and massive; there were hardly any whites at all. Dean could stop staring at them. He felt something in his hands, and Cas’ lips split red, blood running in reams down his chin. Dean looked at his hands, both of them clasped around the hilt of a blade, a jawbone, the first blade. He looked back at Cas’ face, and his eyes were filled with horror. “I’m so sorry, Cas, I’m so fucking sorry,” Dean said brokenly. He wrenched the blade out of him and with a flat hiss of dry air, the weight in Dean’s lap was gone. His fists closed around the space where the blade at been. Dean shuffled back, panting in shock.

“How _touching,_ ” a small voice sneered. With a jolt Dean realised it belonged to Cassie; or rather, it had belonged to Cassie once. He whipped round to find him perched in boughs of one of the wrecked trees. It didn’t look like it should be able to hold his weight. It was strange, seeing him, how it made relief spread right to Dean’s toes and finger tips, radiating from his spine even though he knew that it wasn’t really him. It was someone else wearing his body like something from the dressing up box at best, but it was more likely to be less than that; a doppelganger; a fake; an illusion.

“What do you want, _Luci_?” Dean spat the name, disgusted by the feel of it in his mouth. Lucifer smirked with Cassie’s mouth, the expression an abomination.

“I thought you’d have got that down to a T by now, Dean. Or weren’t you paying attention? I want to rid the world of you rats; do the job my father was too blind to see needed to be done,” Lucifer explained in a bored, off-hand way, as though he were discussing a minor news item.

“Yeah, yeah; you want to kill us all because daddy liked us best, jeez, you’re like a stuck record. But that’s not what I meant,” Dean growled brightly, finding some last reserve of spunk and fire, and getting to his feet. He dusted some of the ash from his thighs. Lucifer lifted his chin, clearly intrigued. “What I mean is – why didn’t you just kill us? You wiped out the whole town – heck, you seem to have wiped out the whole county. So why the long wait?” Dean flashed a dangerous smile. Lucifer dropped Cassie’s head a leered darkly. In a heartbeat he was standing three feet from Dean.

“All this time, and you still don’t understand,” Lucifer tutted, and shook his head. His hands were dirty; dried blood coated his arms to the elbows, cracking and peeling. “You, Castiel, and that other one.”

“Jimmy,” Dean growled. Lucifer rolled his eyes.

“I don’t care. But the three of you... you’re a nightmare, you realise?” he shook his head disapprovingly, then seemed to remember himself. “I suppose you could say, you’ve given me _hell_ over this.”

“So, what? There’s something stopping you from killing us?” Dean asked. Lucifer laughed, throwing his head back. He clasped his hands behind his back and took a few steps to the left.

“Ah, Dean. It’s just a matter of decided exactly _how,_ ” he said, with a flash of a wicked grin. It was one that Dean recognised from Cassie, and it made him want to throw up. That was a smile reserved for ice creams at the fair and Christmas mornings.

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenged. “I think you’re bluffing.”

Lucifer took a few more steps away from Dean. “You poor deluded creature,” Lucifer sighed. “It isn’t fair really, to let any of you live. You’re too senseless to understand this world that was made just for you. Haven’t you ever wondered, Dean, why it is you get knocked down but you never really die?”

“Chips are in my favour,” Dean grunted. Lucifer shook his head. He had his back to Dean now. He glanced over his shoulder to regard him for a moment before he turned back to the distance.

“You’re a fool, Dean, like all the other humans around you,” Lucifer concluded.

“So kill me,” Dean stepped towards him. Lucifer sighed.

“So eager to throw yourself into the fire, Dean,” Lucifer chastised, and then in a puff Lucifer was gone, leaving the air behind him thick and sulphurous. Dean spluttered and swore he could hear a low tinkling laugh on the breeze for a moment. There were no footprints around other than his own. He turned back to the space where the fake Cas had been lying. There was a patch of ground cleared of ash there. He stood in it, looking down at his feet. He covered his eyes with his hands.

He walked on. He walked until the soles of his feet ached, and with every step the pounding in his head seemed to get worse and worse. He could feel his heart beat in every part of his body, like his blood pressure was twice what it should be and was threatening to burst his veins. His muscles burned, his eyes stung, and the ash slowly made every breath more difficult, until it felt like his lungs weren’t doing anything anymore, just expanding and emptying for the sake of it, not taking in any oxygen at all. He was getting a little light headed, and stopped for a moment to lean against a twisted fallen trunk with his knees. He keeled forward, grazing his palms on the charred bark. He retched, blanched, but there was nothing in him to throw up. He was suddenly acutely aware of the dryness of his mouth, of how it felt like the ash had coated the inside of his throat, of how his tongue felt like it was made of wool.

“Dean?” a quivering voice asked. He turned, and there stood Jess, shivering and cowering, her red hair hanging heavy about her shoulders.

“Jessie,” Dean croaked, and she ran towards him. She flung her skinny arms around his waist and he turned to sit on the tree rather than lean over it. He clutched her to him.

“Are you real?” she gasped.

“Yeah, I’m real sweetie, I’m here,” he assured her, squeezing tighter.

“I saw Cassie in the woods. He was hanging from a tree – he was… he was… he-” Jess sobbed. Dean shushed her and ran his hand over her tangled hair.

“Hey, it’s alright. It wasn’t real; it was a trick,” he promised her. He wished all of it was. He wanted to tell her this was just a bad dream. He wanted for that to be exactly what it was. That’s what it felt like. In the back of his mind he kept expecting to wake up to Cassie clambering onto the end of his bed, laughing and asking for pancakes for breakfast, jumping on the mattress, squealing with joy…

“Where’s mom?” Jess asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted.

“Dad?” she said, doubtfully. Dean shook his head. She looked up at him.

“Are they dead?” she asked, tearful but with determination in her voice.

“No,” Dean said. She closed her eyes and looked away.

“You don’t know that,” she said.

“No,” Dean confessed. “But I’ve got a pretty good idea that I’m right,” he offered. Jess didn’t look convinced or particularly interested in his response. God, sometimes she was so like her father. “Hey. Listen to me,” Dean said firmly enough that she looked back up at him in response. “I saw Cassie too, but not a hallucination,” he told her. She frowned. He shook his head. “Hallucination isn’t the right word, I guess,” he agreed. “But I saw him. And he said some things that make me think there’s something going on that’s keeping him from killing us,” he explained.

“Oh,” Jess mumbled unenthusiastically. Dean sighed.

“Look – at first I thought he might have meant just me, but… but now I’ve seen you, and you’re alive, I’m pretty sure your folks won’t be dead, either. Or Bobby,” Dean told her. She frowned.

“Why’d you think that?” she asked. He looked her up and down, assessing her quietly for a moment.

“Because we aren’t dead yet. You saw how many people he’d already killed. If there wasn’t something else at work here then we’d have been dead days ago,” Dean summarised. Jess nodded.

“I guess,” she allowed. Her expression changed from one of apprehension to one of understanding, “they said they couldn’t take us,” she said suddenly, in a gasp.

“Who did?”

“Them. The kids. The ones with the black eyes,” she explained.

“They were demons,” he said. She regarded him sceptically, then grimaced.

“Dean…” she said, shaking her head. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, kid,” Dean said apologetically.

“Is… is Jimmy an angel?” she asked quietly. Dean’s heart sank.

“What?” he whispered.

“Something they said made me think… Jimmy. Was an angel. If those kids were demons, then an angel isn’t so much of a long shot, right?” she whispered back. Her eyes searched Dean’s for some hint of reassurance. He’d never been there, never had a moment of realisation. There was no transparent moment where he didn’t believe and then he did, or at least, not one he could remember. It felt as though the supernatural had been a solid background to his life for it’s duration. It was a part of him.

“No,” Dean told her. “He’s not an angel. Jimmy is a vessel,” he explained.

“You called him Cas…” she realised. She glanced away for a moment. “Like… like Cassie. Like Castiel.” Jess said this with certainty. Dean nodded. “So Castiel is the angel.”

“Yes,” Dean croaked.

“Shit,” she mumbled. He didn’t even remark on her swearing. He didn’t know what to do. She squeezed him tighter. “Is he why we aren’t dead?” she pondered.

Dean sighed. “Maybe. I… I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbled.


	24. Gravitational Pull

“Hey, Dean?” Jess asked as they walked. She was almost jogging to keep pace with him. He clutched her slender hand in his the way he used to cling to guns and knives; like she was the only thing keeping him from certain death. He inclined his head towards her, to let her know he’d heard. “Do you know where we are?”

“Not exactly,” he mused. He looked around as though it would give him some kind of sense of place, some hint as to their exact location, but of course, it didn’t. “But you saw when we left the motel that there was a sort of wall of ash, right?” he inquired. She nodded. “So we can’t be that far out from town,” he explained.

“But there’s no fog here,” she pointed out.

“No, but it’s all over the ground,” he said, their steps emphasising his point with clouds of ash.

“Maybe it’s like that everywhere?” she suggested, grimly. Dean shook his head.

“Nah. I don’t think he could have thrown us out very far,” Dean mumbled. Jess looked dissatisfied with this response, but didn’t push Dean for more. He was glad of it. He’d spent the last half an hour attempting to explain what had happened to Cassie, and why she was seeing illusions of her six year old brother lynched from the charred branches. It was not a conversation he’d found particularly enjoyable, nor had he been able to disguise that from her. He thought they were a little past that anyway.

“That thing I saw in the bathroom,” she said.

“Michael?”

“Uh, yeah,” she muttered. “That. Was that an illusion? Like the Cassie was?”

“No,” he grunted. She looked at the ground. He sighed defeatedly; he was sixteen again, talking Sammy through the ins and outs of hunting. The thought was warming for a moment then made him want to puke. “Michael… he’s like Lucifer.”

“And Cas?” she asked quietly. Dean’s steps faltered, but he tried to act like they hadn’t.

“He’s not like them,” he mumbled.

“But he’s an angel?” she asked inquisitively. Dean sighed.

“Yeah. But he’s less of a dick than they are,” he summarised. Jess laughed; the sound jolting and strange in their surroundings, against the fear in Dean’s heart. It made him smile in surprise.

“Wait… Lucifer is like Lucifer as in Satan?” she puzzled.

“Lucifer _is_ Lucifer as in Satan,” Dean corrected. Jess was quiet for a moment, stewing that over.

“Right,” she said, elongating the word. “Well. If he’s Lucifer as in Satan, is Michael like Michael as in the Archangel?” she mused. Dean chuckled dryly; it hurt his throat.

“ _Is_ the Archangel,” he corrected again. Jess nodded, looked at the ground. Dean shook his head. “Well, he’s one of them.”

“One of them?” she asked, curiously.

“Yeah, there was a whole bunch,” Dean shrugged.

“Was?”

“Yeah. Lucifer killed most of them,” Dean grumbled.

“Oh,” Jess said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

“But not Cas?” she pressed. Dean considered that.

“Well, once. But only for a minute,” Dean explained. Jess nodded as though that made perfect sense. Dean grinned and shook his head.

“But… I’m guessing that archangels are supposed to be special or something. Shouldn’t Lucifer have been able to kill Cas if he could kill the others? Like, I’m assuming they stayed dead…” Jess asked. Dean frowned.

“I guess he should have,” Dean agreed.

“Is Cas special?” Jess needled. Dean gritted his teeth.

“Alright, Jess. Q and A time is over now,” Dean grumbled. Jess sighed, frustrated, and snatched her hand out of Dean’s grasp. She trudged along half a step behind him, her hands jammed into her armpits, scowling. Dean didn’t care beyond his worry for her safety. His mind wandered back to that conversation he’d had with her in the kitchen, months and months ago; it felt like a different world. He had thought he’d never see him again, his angel, his Castiel. Why did he think of him like that, as _his?_ Six years ago when he’d driven up to the hospital to see Lily, with Jess and Bobby clutching each of his hands, when he’d taken that small little bundle in his arms and Sam had said they were naming his Castiel, Dean’s blood had run cold. Cas had been gone for a long time, but he’d never felt lost, not the way Bobby had. He’d never known Jess and he couldn’t climb inside his brother’s head – had he felt the same about her? He couldn’t have, naming his daughter after her. He’d loved Cassie from the moment he’d known Lily was pregnant again, of course he had, but he was angry at Lily and Sam for naming him that way. It felt like they were trying to take Castiel away.

But he wasn’t Dean’s to want to keep, not really, so why did he keep thinking of him that way? There had always been this deep, lingering sense that he should have been looking for him, a nagging feeling that he was missing something important about the way Cas had gone. Maybe that was it; maybe it was the bond that Cas had mentioned, the one he steadfastly wanted to deny was there. He wasn’t sure why the idea so greatly repelled him, why it always had. There was something about Cas that made him seem more like a flame than a person, as though some deep part of Dean still wasn’t convinced that Cas could exist. He was powerful, but inconstant; on a whim he could gather the strength of a god and with just a touch he could erase from the world the beasts Dean spent his life struggling to kill. Cas was too good, too strong for Dean to sully his ideas of him with this weird sense of possession, of ownership, so why the hell did he keep doing it? It was a mental stutter, he was convinced. It came out of being connected to him somehow because Cas had been the one to drag him out of Hell. That had to be it.

“Did you love Jimmy because of Cas?” Jess asked suddenly. Dean stopped in his tracks. He looked at her. Her face was curious, open, and unashamed. She blinked.

“No,” he said quietly. “I loved him because of Jimmy,” he explained. Jess pursed her lips and nodded.

“Is he still there?” she wondered aloud as they started walking again. “Or is it just Cas in there now?”

“He’s still there,” Dean whispered. He was still in there. He had to still be in there. He had a sudden feeling in his chest, like a spark of happiness, of familiarity, and for some reason that made him sure he was right. His head was still pounding, but he stood a little straighter. Jess’ fingers curled around Dean’s and he smiled.

They continued through the ruined forest in a steady silence. After a while, they heard something. Dean stopped, and Jess stopped too as soon as she realised. She turned back, having over taken him by a step, and opened her mouth to speak, but Dean put a finger to his lips. She frowned, but then the sound came again and her eyes went wide. He nodded and squeezed her fingers. It was coming from somewhere to the right. Dean released Jess’ hand and crept silently towards a tree, and pressed himself against it. He gestured for her to follow him, and a second later she was pressed at his side. Dean peered around the trunk.

There were footprints bisecting the space between them and the next tree, which then veered into the distance. They were large and elongated, as though who or whatever made them was shuffling when it did. Dean patted Jess’ side in assurance, then slipped almost silently out from their tree and behind the next one. He checked Jess over his shoulder; her pale face peered around the trunk of the tree, ghostly as framed by her fiery tangles. He keened his head to the side and she ducked behind the trunk, leaving just her white fingers exposed. He returned his attention to the footprints.

He stalked forwards, half-crouched and defensive. Every time he found himself a spot of cover, he checked back to see that Jess’ fingers were still on the edge of the tree. When it was almost too far for him to make them out, he turned back to the footprints and noticed that the shape he’d thought before was a tree stump was moving slightly up and down, like heaving shoulders. The trail of prints led right to it. It was a man. With a gasp, Dean recognised the over-sized shoulders and messy too-long hair that hung from the back of his thrown-back head.

“Sammy!” Dean cried. He was cautious; Lucifer has fooled him once already, and he wasn’t desperate to be tricked by him again. Sam looked up and met his gaze. His eyes were red, the rest of his face gaunt. He staggered upright and ran towards Dean, throwing his overly long arms around him and clutching him tight.

“Dean!” he gasped.

“Daddy?”

They both turned and Jess was walking slowly towards them, her steps tentative. She was looking at Dean as if for confirmation of permission or something, so he nodded. She ran and leapt up against her father’s chest. “Oh god, Jessie,” Sam gasped, burying his face in her hair. “Baby, baby,” he cooed. Dean swallowed.

“Have you seen Bobby? Or Lily?” Sam wheezed desperately as he returned Jess to her feet. She shook her head. They both looked at Dean. He grimaced. “Shit,” Sam said, running his hand over his face. “Fucking shit.” He shook his head. “I keep… I keep seeing that bastard that stole my son,” Sam growled venomously. Dean looked away, through the trees into the distance.

“What about Cas?” Dean asked. “Have you seen him?”

“I’m sorry Dean,” Sam mumbled. Dean turned back fast, eyes burning. “I mean, no. I haven’t seen him,” Sam explained quickly. Dean nodded, relieved. For a moment, he’d thought…

“We need to find mom and Bobby,” Jess said with quiet determination.

“And get Cassie back,” Sam added with a stirring anger in his voice that made Dean want to break something. “Are you hurt?” Sam asked Jess. She shook her head. “You?” he asked Dean. He laughed bitterly.

“I’m guessing you mean other than the huge gash in my head,” he spat. He could feel it, a deep swelling ache. Sam frowned.

“What?” he asked. Dean frowned too.

“The huge gash? That’s where all the blood-” Dean reached up and touched his head. The skin was smooth. His hand his hand over his face; it came away clean. “What?” he whispered.

“Dean?” Sam asked, concerned. Dean shook his head.

“Nothing, I just…” Dean began, then shrugged. “It’s nothing. Come on. Let’s move,” Dean suggested. Sam didn’t look happy with that response, but jerked his head in a quick nod, and they started off waking again.

“Any ideas where we are?” Sam muttered.

“Kind of – I figure that we can’t be that far out of town because of the amount of ash,” Dean told him. He nodded.

“That’s what I thought too,” he agreed. “I was walking this way because it’s sort of slopping down, you know, like the woods do when you get closer to town.” Dean hadn’t noticed that. He’d just been walking this way by coincidence.

“Any ideas about what happened back there at the house?” Dean asked.

“They wanted to kill you all,” Jess said. Both Sam and Dean looked at her in surprise. “They knew it was the first place you’d go. They took us there to keep you in one place long enough to kill you,” she explained with a shrug. “They weren’t very good at keeping quiet.”

“Right,” Dean grunted, with a nod. Jess wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing the side of her own arms.

“It’s going to be alright, Jess,” Sam promised her. She glanced up at him; she didn’t look at all convinced. Sam turned back to Dean. “I don’t think they’ll be at the house again. Whatever happened threw us out a long way. Whatever it was had to be pretty powerful, and it definitely didn’t come from their side if we’re alive,” Sam pointed out. Dean nodded.

“So where?” Dean pressed. Sam shrugged. Dean turned to Jess. “Did you hear anything that might help us work out where they’d fall back too?” Jess’ eyes were wide. She chewed her lip.

“Dean…” Sam warned quietly.

“No. If she heard something important we need to know,” Dean said firmly. Sam clenched his jaw but turned to Jess, but she was shaking her head.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Sam told her. She looked defeated, her little shoulders slumped.

“Maybe it’s the school,” Dean suggested. Sam frowned. “It’s where Cassie disappeared, right? And all the demons are possessing kids. Maybe that’s part of whatever show he’s putting on for us,” Dean grumbled unenthusiastically.

“Well, I suppose it’s not a terrible guess,” Sam muttered.

“Will mom and Bobby be there?”

“I doubt it,” Dean sighed. “But Cassie will be, if I’m right. And if we can stop him it’ll be a hell of a lot easier to find your mom and your other brother,” Dean explained. She nodded.

“And how, exactly, are you prosing to do that?” Sam asked, pointedly.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted.

“We have no weapons, no wards, _nothing_. We don’t even have Cas,” Sam spat.

“Hey!” Dean protested. “Don’t say his name like that.”

“What?” Sam asked incredulously.

“He’s not… a gun or something like that. So don’t talk about him like he is,” Dean grumbled.

“I just meant-”

“I know what you meant, Sammy, and I don’t care,” Dean growled.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted. Sam sighed.

“Jessie? You holding up okay?” he asked her. She nodded.

“Dean thinks that there’s something keeping us safe,” she said. Sam considered that for a moment.

“What? Like God?” Sam asked. Jess looked amazed by her father’s serious insinuation of divine assistance, but quickly looked away.

“I don’t know,” Dean mumbled unhappily. Sam shrugged.

“What happened back there probably should have killed us,” Sam allowed.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“What I said before, about Cas…” Sam stewed over the beginning his statement for a moment before deciding to bail out on it. “I’m sorry,” he said again. Dean sighed loudly.

“It’s alright,” Dean allowed. Sam nodded tersely.

“Come on,” Sam said resolutely. “We can’t be too far out now,” he proposed.

“I don’t know,” Jess mumbled miserably. “The forest is pretty big.” Sam clapped her on the back.

“I know, buddy; I’ve always hated hiking too,” Sam told her. Dean chuckled despite himself. Jess half smiled for a moment. “We’ll find them,” Sam promised. Dean looked up at the grey sky and took a deep breath; he really hoped that he was right.

Maybe an hour later, the farthest reaches of their vision seemed to drop away, and the trees began to thin out a little. A little while longer, and they could see the town at the foot of the slope. It was barely visible, like someone had erased half of it, covered as it was in a blanket of ash. It was eerily quiet and still. There wasn’t so much as a breath of wind on the air. Now they were almost out of the tree line, the air seemed colder, and Dean had goose bumps on his exposed forearms. There were dark smudges all along them which he recognised with a grimace as being Cas’ blood. Dean felt as though this moment ought to have been monumental, that they should be able to look across the dead grey and see flickering flames at their destination like Sam and Frodo as they looked over Mordor. Instead, the tiny elementary school campus was as dead and empty looking as the rest of town. Looking at it, though, he was sure he was right and that was where they were supposed to be going.

There was something else too, a deep sense of longing and dread that spiralled out from the centre of his chest and right to the top of his scalp, which was still aching with a phantom injury that he swore had been real when he had first regained consciousness. The school drew his gaze like a beacon, and he could taste something bitter in his mouth.

“Well,” said Sam, “let’s go then.”

And so they started up walking again, out of the trees and towards the town, their paths ever so slightly angled towards the school, and Dean tried to kid himself that his sense of forboding was actually certainty. He didn’t know what they were going to do when they got there, because Sam had been right; they didn’t have anything to fight with. Even if they did, Lucifer was an archangel and they don’t exactly die easy. Even if they somehow _could_ kill Lucifer, would they, when he was in Cassie’s little body? Dean’s stomach twisted at the thought. Of course they couldn’t. And no matter how much Dean speculated, one thing remained true; they were pitifully unarmed, not to mention exhausted. But what else could they do? They kept walking forwards because it was all they could do in the face of this.

No. This was the only way. Somehow, for some reason, Dean knew that he was right. He just hoped like hell that he wasn’t right about anything, because he had a disgusting sense that they would get there and it would be the death of them all.


	25. Parallel Lives

_Four months earlier_

_Jimmy woke with a start, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He swallowed and gasped a desperate breath. Before him, the alarm clock glowed, its green letters the only light in the room besides the thin yellow outline around the door that was made by the light in the hall. Jimmy could hear the rain battering against the outside of the house as though it was trying to break into it. Beside him, Dean was softly snoring, the sound quiet and regular. Jimmy used it like a metronome, lost himself in the rhythm, until something half-disturbed his sleeping lover and he turned, the snoring hitching at first then stopping entirely. Jimmy could feel Dean’s breath against the back of his neck, warm blasts of comfort on his skin. He shuffled backwards into him, eyes sinking shut, until he moved over a part of the pillow that was wet. He sat up abruptly and flicked on his bedside lamp._

_There was a small puddle of blood where he had been lying. He touched his upper lip, found more of it there. Dean’s eyes were half-open; he blinked with sleepy curiosity. “It’s okay,” Jimmy promised him. “I had a nosebleed; it’s fine.” Dean nodded, and closed his eyes. He yawned._

_“Wake me up if you… need me,” Dean told him. Jimmy smiled, and smoothed Dean’s hair with his clean hand. Dean leaned up into the contact like a happy cat and stretched long beneath the thin sheet they were sleeping under. The room was warm with summer heat and the life of two people inside it, breathing and moving in the dark. Jimmy grabbed his robe off the end of the bed and turned off the lamp again, creeping out into the hall. It was a little bit cooler out there, but not much. He didn’t shut the door entirely; just left it resting on the latch. He’d already disturbed Dean once and he hated to think of doing it again._

_The Winchester bathroom was small and well loved. Jimmy trailed a hand over the tiles and could feel the work Dean put into to fixing up this place. It seemed like it must have been a wreck when they bought it; they had hardly any money, from what he could tell. He didn’t think Lily came from money either. There was something very thrown-together and homey about the house that Jimmy liked; of course he liked the people in it too, especially Dean._

_The nightmares had been worse here, but he supposed that was just because Marcus was gone, and he was grieving, wasn’t he, for the loss of his love. It had got a little better since he moved to sleep in Dean’s room, though not by much; he wasn’t sure but it was as though Cas could somehow sense that Dean was nearby. When they slept naked against each other like they had been before Jimmy woke up, Cas would scream, scream his name, regardless as to what they were doing to him. Not that Jimmy could see that properly, anyway; his picture was from Cas’ eyes, and his vision of his tortures was limited when it was there at all. Some nights Jimmy was dreamless, and he wondered in the mornings after if Cas had been unconscious for a while. Other times all he could hear was him breathing, fast and unsteady, panicked and pained. Jimmy always woke matching those breaths, like just then. It made him dizzy, but he was dizzy a lot now._

_He peered at his reflection in the mirror; these days it seemed he barely recognised himself. Right now his chin was covered in blood, and it had run down his face as he lay on his side, right to his ear. He wet the flannel with warm water and scrubbed the worst off his face, them noticed that it had also run into his hair. He sighed defeatedly; he would have to take a shower. Reluctantly, he stripped himself of his robe and switched on the shower that hung over the end of the bath. As he leaned over to pull off the sock that he’d somehow managed to leave on, he caught sight of himself in the mirror again, though this time it wasn’t really him._

_He stood straight again fast, and looked at Castiel, looking back at him. There was a deadness in his eyes that Jimmy regarded with a grimace that Cas didn’t return. There was blood dripping from his hair like, where something that looked like a twisted metal crown had been forced onto his head. Jimmy knew that in hell, Cas didn’t look like that; he couldn’t, because he didn’t have a vessel. In hell he was impossible; a towering beast that made demons cower and hiss, but that only seemed to make them gnaw at him harder, more viciously. There were teeth marks on Cas’ arms._

_“Dean,” Castiel mouthed; his breath fogged up the glass, but there was no sound. Jimmy moved towards it, put his hand there._

_“No, it’s Jimmy,” Jimmy told him. Castiel looked afraid, his dead eyes darting about himself, panicked._

_“Dean,” he mouthed again, leaving his jaw hanging this time._

_“I’m sorry,” Jimmy said to him, but he was panting now, and no longer seemed aware of Jimmy’s presence. Jimmy blinked, and he was looking at himself again. He ran a hand through his hair, and jumped at the sight of bite marks across the rope-like scar down his forearm. He rubbed at it, and it faded a little, but not completely. He climbed into the shower._

_There had been a lot more blood in Jimmy’s hair that he’d realised; it turned the shampoo bubbles copper. He rinsed and stayed with his head under the stream for a while, feeling a headache building as it often did. They were sharp, like a nail had been hammered quick and fast into the side of his skull, only the pain lasted for hours where it probably would have faded if that had really been the case. When he towelled himself off, his hair still left ghostly rust-like stains on the cotton. He sighed and kneaded his temple. There was no way he was going to sleep through that drug free, as much as he hated to admit it. He’d developed a strong distaste for pills since his… episode the day after Marcus’ funeral._

_Resolutely, he went downstairs to the kitchen and flicked off the light. He frowned; he had a strange sense that someone else had been in there just a moment before. “Hello?” he said, by compulsion. He wasn’t expecting a response. He shuffled over to the cabinet were the medical supplies were stored and grabbed the box of aspirin out of it. He popped two out of the packet and poured himself a small glass of water. Rain was cascading down the kitchen window, the light from behind him reflected in thin wiggles that were constantly changing shape. He popped the pills past his lips and necked the water in one. He grimaced; despite the amount of liquid he’d used to wash them down, he felt like he could feel them sliding down his gullet. It made him retch. He poured himself another glass of water and sipped it this time, watching the soothing changing patterns in the rain._

_There was the creak of a door behind him and a gasp, and Jimmy whipped around to see Cassie standing naked in the middle of the room. His hair was somehow still wet from his bath. “Cassie?” Jimmy asked. Cassie looked up at him fearfully. “What are you doing out of bed?”_

_“N-nothing?” Cassie squeaked. Jimmy frowned._

_“It’s very late – it’s actually tomorrow, you know,” Jimmy told him. Cassie’s eyes went wide. “Where are your pyjamas?” Cassie looked down at himself._

_“I must have took them off,” he mumbled. He shuffled side to side, kicking his heels._

_“Hmm,” Jimmy mused. “Did you have a bad dream again?” Jimmy asked him softly. Cassie considered that for a moment and then nodded. Jimmy puffed out a short sigh. “Me too, little man,” he admitted._

_“Really?” Cassie asked, his voice a mix of wonder and disbelief. Jimmy chuckled._

_“Uh-huh – grown-ups have nightmares too,” Jimmy explained. Cassie looked crestfallen at this prospect. “It’s okay though – they’re just dreams. They aren’t real.” Jimmy promised him._

_“Are you sure?” Cassie asked sulkily. Jimmy crouched down and nodded._

_“I’m sure as sure that your bad dreams aren’t real,” Jimmy said, silently adding ‘it’s mine I’m not sure about’ to the end of that._

_“Do you ever get scared that your bad dreams are going to get into your brain?” Cassie asked, his wide green eyes, so like Dean’s, searching Jimmy’s for some hint of camaraderie or reassurance._

_“I do,” Jimmy confessed. Cassie sucked his bottom lip into his mouth to chew it, something Jimmy had noticed Dean doing when he was concentrating on something important._

_“Uncle Jimmy?” Cassie asked._

_“Yeah?”_

_“Do you believe in angels?” he whispered, looking over each of his shoulders as he spoke as if to check nobody was listening. Jimmy smiled and tried to swallow the lump that Cassie’s words had put in his throat._

_“You’re named after one,” Jimmy told him, avoiding the question._

_“Nuh-uh,” Cassie pouted and shook his head. “I’m named after Uncle Dean’s friend Castiel,” Cassie said proudly. Jimmy’s smile froze in place as a pang of pain flashed through his skull, like someone was trying to perform a botched lobotomy on him._

_“That’s right,” Jimmy agreed. Cassie nodded determinedly and Jimmy chuckled. He prayed the asprin would kick in soon. “Hey – hows about you go and grab a fresh set of pyjamas and come right back down here, and I’ll make us both a mug of milk and honey before we go back to bed?” Jimmy suggested. Cassie nodded, and started to bolt up the stairs. “Be quiet as a mouse, little man!” Jimmy called in a loud whisper after him. Cassie nodded like he was accepting an undercover mission, and proceeded to creep up the stairs about three percent more quietly that he usually would have. Jimmy shook his head disapprovingly but chuckled to himself. There was a flash of lightening, and Jimmy briefly glimpsed the garden in the rain. He jumped; he could have sworn, just in that instant that he saw_ Cassie _out there…_

_“Jimmy?” Cassie squeaked, tugging on Jimmy’s sleeve. He had put on his robe. “We match now,” he pointed out. Jimmy steadied himself against the counter._

_“Sure do,” Jimmy managed, if a little breathlessly._

_“Where’s the honey and milk?” Cassie demanded. Jimmy chuckled fondly._

_“Hey! You cheated by just putting on your robe; you haven’t given me a chance to make it yet,” Jimmy tutted._

_“I didn’t cheat!” Cassie squealed indignantly._

_“No, you didn’t,” Jimmy corrected himself with a sigh. “I was just joking, buddy.” Jimmy started across the room towards the fridge but froze when he put his foot in a puddle of water. He looked down at it, frowning in confusion. He was pretty sure he’d dried himself off pretty thoroughly before he’d come down stairs. It seemed the incessant rain had managed to find its way inside after all. He made a mental note to tell Dean in the morning, in case there was a leak._

_He took the milk out of the fridge and began pouring it into two mugs, and jumped when a thick glut of it splashed into one of them. “Yuck,” said Cassie. Jimmy grimaced. The sell by date wasn’t for another two days. He sniffed the white liquid and wrinkled his nose – yup, it was definitely off. It didn’t seem right, all this food going off, and thinking about it seemed to make Cas in the back of his mind get louder and louder until it was almost unbearable and he was left clutching the kitchen counter for support._

_“We’ll just have to have a biscuit each instead,” Jimmy concluded. Cassie beamed excitedly and went to hover underneath the high shelf where Dean kept the cookie jar and the sharp knives, high enough up that not even Jess could reach them yet. He handed Cassie a cookie and took one for himself. They crunched them as they went up the stairs. Jimmy paused outside Cassie’s room and Cassie carried on towards Bobby’s. “Hey, Cassie,” Jimmy whispered. Cassie turned eagerly. “Want to know a secret?” he asked him. Cassie nodded earnestly and Jimmy smiled. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, not even mom and dad, okay?”_

_“I promise,” Cassie said proudly._

_“I sleep in uncle Dean’s room with him now, so if you want to start sleeping in your own bed again, that’s okay,” Jimmy told him. Cassie looked at the closed bedroom door and shook his head vehemently. “Do you like sharing with Bobby?”_

_“His feet smell,” Cassie complained. Jimmy chuckled._

_“Then wouldn’t you prefer to sleep in your own bed again?” Jimmy asked. Cassie looked apprehensively at the door, chewing his lip again._

_“No,” he said, very quietly. Jimmy puzzled over him, studying his little chubby face for a few moments before pulling him close into a hug. Cassie’s little fingers tugged at the back of Jimmy’s robe._

_“Alright,” Jimmy said softly, pulling back and getting to his feet. “Back to bed with you,” he tapped Cassie’s shoulder. He trundled down the hallway and pushed open Bobby’s door._

_“Night, Jimmy,” he called back._

_“Night, Cassie,” Jimmy replied. Cassie grinned, and disappeared into the room. Jimmy slipped back into Dean’s room and closed the door as quietly as he could. He didn’t snap on the lamp, but in the brief moment where the room had been filled with light from the hall, Jimmy had seen that Dean’s face was no longer in easy slumber. He cast off his robe and slid under the sheet with a small sigh, and moved close to him, looping one arm around his shoulders. “Shush,” he whispered._

_“Cas…” Dean mumbled, nuzzling his head into Jimmy’s chest. Jimmy pressed his eyes closed and put his lips to Dean’s forehead._

_“No, baby,” Jimmy whispered. “It’s just me, it’s just Jimmy,” he told him. Dean made a small broken sound and wound his arms around Jimmy’s waist._

_“Come back to me, Cas,” Dean moaned quietly into Jimmy’s skin._

_“He’s trying,” Jimmy promised him, winding his fingers into Dean’s hair._

_“I love you, I love you,” Dean whispered, and Jimmy felt the words reverberate right down to his toes._

_“Don’t say that now,” Jimmy begged him. “Don’t say that to him.”_

_“Cas, please come back. I love you. Come back,” Dean breathed, the words barely audible, but enough to rip Jimmy to shreds. Jimmy strained against Dean’s grip and finally prised himself free, ignoring Dean’s whimper as he did so, and he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling._

_“_ I _love you, Dean,” Jimmy said into the darkness. “And I’m right here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't express enough how much it has meant to me so far to hear back from you lovely readers! Your comments and Kudos always make my day so thank you; I would have given up by this point if it wasn't for knowing you guys were out there in the world reading and actually ENJOYING this, so yeah. Thank you!!


	26. Sparring Ground

The bollards at the edge of the school’s car park jutted out of the ash like tombstones out of snow. Everywhere looked like a grainy photograph, the ones where everyone wears a stoic expression. Dean remembered reading somewhere about how the Victorians used to take photographs of their dead relatives, awkwardly jammed into the positions they’d have been in if they were alive. Dean kept his hands in his pockets now; his palms itched with emptiness. Jess hung off her father’s arm. Dean walked ahead, just a little, but enough, he felt, that if anything was coming it would take him first, and they’d have a moment to escape.

The school was the same as the last time he’d seen it; incidentally, that had been the last time he’d seen Cassie, too. They crept around, staying away from the main entrance. There were lumps in the ash there that Jess saw and looked worriedly at Dean to explain, but he just shook his head. What could he have said? Her worst thoughts were true. There were bodies everywhere, Dean could see, now the ash fog had settled. They couldn’t avoid them completely because there were just too many. Lucifer had seemed to do this in an instant, or at least overnight. The storm had built and built but now everything had been burnt. The school’s brickwork was charred and the plastic toys in the playground melted into bubbling hunks around jutting steel bones that had once held them up.

The cars stood in rows in the car park were empty. There were no blindly staring eyes to walk part as there had been at the hospital. Dean was grateful for that. He was tempted to break in and search every vehicle for a knife, a gun, s _omething_ that he could have that would make him feel less damn vulnerable and exposed. He walked leaning forwards, hands jammed as far into his pockets as they could go. He took big, slow steps. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. There were faces in the windows, until you turned to look at them. As soon as you looked away they were back. Little moon faces with midnight eyes, all expressions; some smiling, some snarling, some veritably spitting at the glass. They existed only in peripheral vision, like the shadows at their heels.

They must be close to where Dean had hit the girl. He wondered if she was a demon when he’d hit her or not. He couldn’t remember her having black eyes, but then he struggled to see her as anything but sprawled, ruined on the ground. He’d done that. Him. Dean Winchester. He’d murdered somebody’s baby girl. They were probably dead, not that it made it any better. Somehow it made it worse. There was nobody to miss her. Nobody to miss any of them, the children in the windows. They were all alone.

They finally reached a side door which was hanging open. There was a scorched sign on the wall next to it that said ‘All Visitors Report to the Front Desk’ and there was a smiley face underneath it. Dean hesitated, then stepped inside. Nothing happened. He turned and nodded to Jess and Sammy, though they were following him anyway.

The school’s interior was oddly untouched. The wooden flooring was worn from decades of feet belonging to generation of children that walked up and down then. There were paintings on the walls, of sheep and cows and pigs, of wiggle-y lines that didn’t really mean anything. There was a tree with the leaves made of tiny orange handprints; the names of the children they belonged to were scrawled underneath in red biro. ‘Cory’, ‘Helen’, ‘Bobby L’, ‘Chris’, ‘Bobby W’. Dean touched his index finger to that one and smiled and the sloppy imprint. The display had to have been made the fall before, when Bobby was still in elementary school.

They were only a few metres down the hall when they came across the first door; it was some kind of storage space, crammed with books and files and paper work. Dean just stuck his head in and glanced around it quickly, then they moved on. The next door led to a class room; the door proudly declared it was the home of kindergarten. It was a big room, with no desks and chairs like Dean remembered there being when he was a kid; there were bean bags and miniature sofas, a string of cushioned stools with a face on the end that made it look like a caterpillar. In the centre of the room was a circle of yellow tape, where Dean knew the teachers got the kids to sit to take roll call. Now inside of it there was an intricate symbol drawn in messy smears that looked black on the green carpet but Dean still assumed were drawn in blood.

The faces were outside now, and standing in the corners of rooms. Dean tried to examine them without turning to look, but it was impossible. They vanished with a whisper in the still air. There was something else though, a constant sound. It was a drip, drip, drip, and it was coming from somewhere in that room. Dean stepped inside it fully, coming a little closer to the symbols on the ground than he would have liked. It was louder now; it was like a dripping tap. There were several plastic easels that were only as tall as Dean’s shins, with little pots of paint by their sides. As Dean watched, one of them splashed up as more liquid fell from somewhere. Dean glanced at the ceiling and cringed away from it.

He turned to tell Sam to stop Jess from looking too late; her neck craned back and her eyes grew wide as she saw what Dean had just seen. The teacher of this class, pinned to the ceiling with what looked like the legs of metal chairs. The blood dripped from her head. Jess gasped and Sam lurched to cover her mouth, but the sound of shock seemed to be enough to disturb the energy in the room enough that the teacher slipped off the spikes that were holding her up and slammed into the easel below her like a ragdoll. Dean grimaced.

“Miss Tyson?” Jess said, pulling out of her father’s grip. “They’re all dead, aren’t they?” she continued flatly, turning to Dean. “The teachers, the kids. Everyone. Even. Even mom and Bobby and Cassie and-” she gasped.

“No, they’re not,” Dean promised her softly. She narrowed her eyes. Sam put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, let’s keep going. They’ve got to be here somewhere,”

Sam nodded resolutely, and Jess looked up at him. They strode quickly back out into the hall. Sam grabbed Dean’s hand and muttered into his ear, “what if you’re wrong?”

Dean yanked his arm away. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m sure of it,” he insisted. Sam searched Dean’s face. “I don’t know what it is, I just kind of… know, alright?” he grumbled as a half explanation, as good as any that he’d thought of for his certainty. Sam looks about as convinced as you would expect, but lowered his head.

“Alright, Dean,” he allowed. There was no energy in the way he moved back to his daughter and took her hand in his. The expression on his face was grey and resigned; he thought they were dead. He was indulging Dean for whatever reason, maybe some small sprig of hope buried deep inside of him. Dean could find a hint of it anywhere in his expression, but still he couldn’t shake the confidence in his chest. He was sure, so sure they would be alive. Maybe they’d be hurt, possibly hurt real bad, but somehow he _knew_ his family were alive.

They opened the next door along and Dean jumped back because Cas was standing right behind it, new and fresh and wild eyed, the way he’d been the first night he’d seen him. As Dean staggered back he vanished. “Dean, you okay?” Sam asked. Dean gulped and nodded.

“I think Cas was here,” he said dryly. Sam’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know how I know that, I just… do.”

This classroom was different from the first. All the desks and other pieces of furniture had been cleared from the middle of the room; from the way the tables and chairs leaned into each other, legs sticking out at every angle, it seemed as though they’d been blasted rather than pushed aside. There was a dark scorch mark on the dull blue carpet, and the place stank of sulphur. “What classroom is this?” Dean asked.

“First grade,” Jess answered, her voice shaky. “Cassie’s classroom.”

“Look at this,” Sam said. He’d crossed he room and was standing right by the window, peering up at something. The glass appeared to be frosted, and it hadn’t been in the other room. Dean edged to Sam’s side. As he got closer it became apparent that the glass wasn’t frosted but smashed and covered in such a dense spider web of cracks that it seemed absurd that it was staying in its frames. “How is it doing that?” Sam muttered. Dean shrugged and pressed a finger to it. It was firm, but when he pulled his finger away there was a line of red split across it like a paper cut. A bead of blood grew and slid across his skin until it was hanging underneath his finger instead of on top of it. Dean stared at it curiously as it hung for a moment, then broke free, falling, falling until it splashed onto the ground. It was shiny on the carpet for a moment, then it was absorbed.

“Huh,” Dean said, but Sam tugged on his sleeve, the way he used to when he was a kid, too frightened or shocked or excited for words. _Look, Dean, he has a knife. Look, Dean, you’re bleeding. Look, Dean, it’s a fun fair._ Dean looked, a trained response, apprehensive but compelled. The place he’d touched was oozing blood, and it was slowly climbing the crack in the window as more pooled on the narrow window ledge. It dripped wetly to the carpet and within minutes it was soaked, and the whole window filled. They could still see glimpses of the ashy world outside, little flecks of white, then the blood seemed to pulse and spat out droplets that covered the last clean pieces of glance and splattered over their faces. Behind them both Jess let out a little cry of disgust but it was short lived as the window bowed, arcing over them, huge and convex, creaking and heaving under immense pressure. It seemed twice the size it had started as and Dean cringed away from it.

“Jess, get back!” Sam yelled, and there was an almighty crunch, and for a second everything when quiet, and then all at once the tiny shards of glass burst and were hurtling in the air towards them. Dean felt several graze his cheeks and more of them catch and tear it his clothes. Amongst the sharp feelings of pain a glass pierced his skin there was uncomfortable wet warmth as the blood hit him too. It cooled rapidly, and by the time the debris had settled Dean was shaking with cold and adrenaline. He lowered his arm and instead of a window, the side of the building was gouged away, and before them stretched a vast, meaningless, red expanse. It flickered and shimmered like flames, but the winds blowing from inside of it were icy cold and dry as a bone.

Upon the precipice, wiping his hands against his blood soaked jeans, there stood a child. His eyes were leaf green and his teeth bright white against the blood he was covered in. His hair was ruffled in red tendrils of it. “The once righteous man, and the could-have-been boy king. What a pleasant surprise,” he trilled in Cassie’s soprano tone, positioning himself of the rubble-covered divide between the planes.

“Jess, don’t look at him,” Sam said determinedly, and for the first time since the gateway opened, Dean sought him out. He was holding Jessie, and she was gulping in massive breaths. They were as soaked in blood as Cassie was.

“No, child. Look at me. Judgement day has come. Look upon the face of your executioner,” Cassie hissed, and threw his arms wide. He keened his head back, exposing his neck. The blood on it cracked and showed the pale flesh beneath.

“Mur… derer…” wheezed another voice. Dean turned in horror, and then he saw him; Castiel. He was just on the other side, but still bound to Jimmy’s body. He wasn’t doused in blood, but sweat; his arms were held high above his head, and his legs were limp against the ground, clearly not taking any of his weight. There were dark streaks down his forearms, running from his wrists.

“Cas!” Dean called to him, but he didn’t lift his head. It stayed hanging uselessly against his chest. Those eyes, Dean needed to see those eyes.

“Castiel here thinks I’m not worthy of this task,” Lucifer shrugged. “Of cleansing the world of this… this vermin. But the longer I spent down here…” he shook his head, “the more I came to realise that this was my purpose. I was made to accomplish this great task, a task so great that God himself could not bring himself to do it.”

“Cassie I know you’re in there! Listen to me! It’s Jess!” Jess yelled suddenly. Lucifer turned with a smirk.

“He can’t hear you,” Lucifer sneered.

“He can! I know you can hear me, Cassie, please come back!” she begged. Lucifer’s grin vanished. “Please, little brother, Cassie! Come back!” she said desperately.

“Enough!” Lucifer announced, and with a flick of his wrist, Jess was sailing through the air and with a dull thud she slid to the carpet.

“You bastard!” Sam yelled, running towards him.

“Oh, Sam,” Lucifer sighed. “All of your children are bastards.” Sam stopped dead in his advance and crumpled to the ground in a ball. Dean darted over to him and tugged him onto his back. He was still breathing, but he was out cold. “You see Dean,” Lucifer continued, stepping into the room. “There’s a natural order of things, and you and Castiel. Well. You’re abominations, mongrels. Half breeds. You upset the balance Dean, you really do. But no more,” he flicked his wrist again, and from the sleeve of Cassie’s shirt fell a long, thin blade. Dean recognised it at once; an archangel blade.

“You can’t hurt him,” Castiel spat, blood bubbling to his lips.

“I hurt you,” Lucifer pointed out. Dean glared at him, enraged, but it was still Cassie in front of him. Even if somehow he could rip the weapon from his hands, he knew he’d never be able to use it. “Did you really think your bond would save you? This is your destiny,” Lucifer said, and he climbed up onto a desk that was beside Dean, so he was almost at his eye level. He raised the blade high into the air and it glinted red in the flickering light of hell. Dean braced himself.

“No!” Cas yelled, but the blade was curving forwards, arcing through the air towards him. He could feel the sharpness of its tip against his skin, but that was all. Lucifer was frowning up at Dean, then his eyes flickered to the blade. Dean smirked.

“Impossible!” Lucifer hissed, and the blade trembled, and flew out of his grip, clattering to the ground beside the door.

“Just im…probable,” Cas disagreed, lifting his head finally to reveal a grin on his bruised and bloodied face.

“Quiet!” Lucifer hissed, and Cas cried out, his head lolling again, chest heaving as he panted. His feet scrambled at the floor for a moment. Lucifer shot out Cassie’s hands and wrapped his cold bloody fingers around Dean’s neck; they didn’t reach the whole way, and though he was shaking with fury and effort, his grip wouldn’t tighten on Dean’s throat. He growled in rage and with a crack and the smell of sulphur he disappeared and re-emerged beside Castiel. “Why can’t I kill him?” he demanded. Dean heard a whip crack and though Dean saw nothing touch him Cas cried out in pain. “Why won’t you die?!”

“Because I won’t let him,” Dean said with determination, and took a step towards the gate.

“Dean!” Cas gasped desperately. “Don’t cross over… once you are in… his domain… he can hurt you.”

“I need to help you, I need to get you down from there,” Dean insisted. Cas lifted his chin just barely.

“You won’t make it… that far…” he managed before his head dropped down again.

“You might,” Lucifer goaded.

“Cas,” Dean called to him meekly.

“He doesn’t love you,” Lucifer growled.

“ _What_?” Dean snapped.

“He never loved you, Castiel,” Lucifer shook his head, blood raining from Cassie’s hair as he did so.

“Dean…you need to get… out…of here,” Cas whispered, but despite the distance, somehow Dean could hear him.

“No! I won’t leave you,” Dean took a step towards the gate.

“Don’t!” Cas cried. “Please… I couldn’t bear… to see you hurt… again…”

“What? Cas… I. I can’t just stand here and watch you suffer!” Dean stammered.

“So go… please,” Cas begged, lifting his head for a moment and meeting Dean’s gaze finally with those sparking eyes, wide and blue, desperately searching Dean’s for understanding.

“No,” Dean said firmly. Cas’ eyes narrowed, then closed, and he dropped his head again. Dean shivered.

“He stays from obligation,” Lucifer hissed.

“I don’t,” Dean growled back.

“Then what? We you tore his coat, you took down his photograph. You said you didn’t want him,” Lucifer pointed out. Dean’s eyes stung.

“No,” he croaked.

“He said he never wanted you, Castiel,” Lucifer sneered, reaching up and resting a hand on Cas’ cheek. “He doesn’t love you, baby brother. Don’t waste your heart on him.”

“That’s not true,” Dean fumed. Lucifer turned, his lip curled back over his teeth in a snarl, poised about to laugh, but then, like a crack of thunder, the classroom door flew open. Dean whipped around as fast as he could, and there, in the doorway, was Bobby. But he was all wrong. He stood feet apart, his arms jutting out from his sides, his hands balled into fists. With a stony face, he bent and curled one fist around the archangel blade that lay discarded at his fist.

“Bobby!” Dean cried, but the child didn’t even flinch. He didn’t seem to see Dean at all, he just looked right past him, straight at Lucifer. Lucifer hissed like a cat and crossed back from the otherside of the gate and jumped onto one of the tables again, way above Bobby’s small frame now. Bobby was covered with ash and soot.

A moment later, Lily appeared, sprinting across the doorway and hating abruptly as she flung herself against the post, “Bobby!” she gasped. “Don’t do this!”

“I have to do this,” Bobby said, and his voice was as wrong as his demeanour.

“Michael,” Lucifer spat from his perch. Bobby’s grip on the blade tightened.

“It’s my destiny.”


	27. Stop the Clocks

Michael squared himself to his brother, Bobby to Cassie, small, slight bodies, one covered in dust, one covered in blood. There was no cage to throw them into, and Dean wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway. He looked across at Lily, at the horror on her face that grew with understanding. She didn’t seem to see the scene behind Dean, or Dean at all, for that matter. The vast expanse of Hell that extended from where the classroom’s window had been before might as well have not been there at all for all Lily’s eyes seemed to say. She didn’t care. All she saw was her boys, her babies, and the knife in Bobby’s hand, and the clear intent in his posture.

Time slowed down, but not the way it does in movies. Dean did not have super powers – he was as slow as the world around him, moving as if through treacle, unable to reach them, unable to even get close. Bobby was striding forward, but he hardly seemed to need to, because Cassie flickered out and reappeared in front of him. They were level with Dean, side on to him, and he watched Bobby’s arm raise as he lifted the blade high above his head, the way Cassie had done minute before in threat to Dean. That gloating pride, that steady surety that Lucifer had been moving Cassie’s body with until that moment seemed to fall away as he stood before his brother.

Dean could see Sam sprawled behind them, and all he could think was _this should have been us_. A flare of passion and sadness threatened to bring him to his knees as he found the deepest reaches of his soul and plead silently with sore conviction that the angels in his nephews would just take him and Sam instead. He would have that blade fall through anyone other than the child in front of him.

In the back of Dean’s mind Cassie’s life flashed by, like your own life is supposed to right before you’re about to die. It’s funny that Dean never remembers that having happened to him, not now, but he can see Cassie; a blue blanket wrapped baby laid on little Jessie’s lap, Bobby pressing kisses to his forehead. First giggle, first word, first step, first run. The first time he’d called Dean’s name for help over his parent’s. The first time he’d ridden a bike. Bobby, that kid, he was always so headstrong, always so ready to do whatever as long as he thought it sounded fun. Tearing through the house at the weekends, stealing his mother’s lipstick to paint lines on Cassie’s cheeks, the chief of Bobby’s enemy squad, fighting through the jungle of leaves in the fall.

This kids were good, these kids were better than this. He hated these angels with more than he’d ever hated anything in his life, and the fury burned him, but it didn’t make him move faster. He _couldn’t_. He was stuck, gliding slowly towards them, as Cassie threw his head back and spread his arms wide as he had done at the head of his threshold before, just as resplendent in defeat as purported victory. The ghost of a smile played at the edges of his lips and before they close Dean saw his eyes roll back into his head. Bobby seemed to be casting light from his ashen body, and the shadows cast by Cassie’s arms unfurled as massive wings across the ground, and as they did the air was filled with an acrid, pungent smell that was unlike anything Dean had ever smelled before.

Dean realised that no longer could be even try to fight through the sticky air towards them; something was holding him in place, rooting him to the ground, unmovable. A strangled cry escaped his lips but the children poised before him didn’t react or even seem to notice. Lily seemed to have been frozen still the same way, half-suspended, mid-stride, hands outstretched towards them.

“Do it, brother,” Lucifer urged. This was not how it had been before; when they had come for Sam and Dean, Lucifer and Michael had wanted a fight. Now it seemed predetermined, almost arranged. They had been locked together for thousands of years, Dean realised, and that would be enough time for them to come to understand one another.

“You were so sure you’d finish your task before I had the chance,” Michael replied in a soft, sympathetic voice. The shadows of Lucifer’s wings arced up as though in pride, or perhaps indignation.

“I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit,” Lucifer said. Michael nodded, and there was a sound unlike any other Dean had heard in his life, terrible and somehow beautiful at the same time, but it felt as though it was tearing him apart as he heard it. He realised after a moment he was screaming with it, and then, too late, that Michael had inched Bobby’s arm a little higher.

And then the blade was arcing down.

And then, with a gasp, it hit Cassie in the middle of his chest.

Even over the ethereal screams Dean could hear Lily’s wail of pain. Light burst from where the blade entered Cassie’s little body, shining out of his gaping mouth and his now wide eyes. The light grew and grew until it was both blinding and all consuming, and before Dean could make sense of anything again, he was lying on the ground, and Lily was pulling Cassie into her arms, and the light and the screeching and the cold wind had stopped, and everything was quiet.

Bobby was on the ground too, his eyes closed and the lids fluttering fast like he was dreaming. The hand he’d used to wield the blade was badly burnt. Dean didn’t turn to look at his brother, he couldn’t. Adrenaline does strange things to your head and your priorities. Dean’s mind worked desperately to create a space in which he didn’t have to deal with the blade in Cassie’s chest, so instead of looking at him or paying attention to Lily he was tearing the bottom of his shirt and winding it around Bobby’s hand and wrist as a makeshift bandage, and getting to his feet and rushing to the wall that Jess had been slumped against, that she was sitting at the bottom of now, her face in her knees.

When Dean did eventually turn, he gawped, because the gate was gone and instead was just a gaping hole in the side of the wall that lead onto the carpark they’d crept through before. There was rubble, and Dean could see the massive iron frame that had held the windows lying empty on the ground. The ash was still there, and Dean and the carpet and both Jess and Sam – who was still sprawled on his back unconscious – were still soaked in blood. In a panic he remembered Castiel, who had been on the other side. What had happened to him? Was he now trapped there for good? Dean’s chest seemed to fill with ice at the thought and he was screaming, yelling Cas’ name over Lily crying out for Cassie.

Dean stumbled fast and forwards, rushing towards the hole, almost going flying through the air as he did so, all the while still calling, calling “Castiel!”. He clambered over what was left of the wall, and there, in the dust and ash and pieces of brick, Cas was lying on his back.

“Dean,” Cas croaked. Dean crouched beside him, cleared away debris until he found his hand and clutched it as tight as he dared to. “Cassie,” he whispered. Dean shook his head, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. “I can… save him,” Cas’ eyes were wide and certain. His body looked broken.

“No,” Dean hushed, “it’ll kill you.”

Cas smiled, and Dean’s breaths shuddered into a sob. “Shh,” Cas breathed, reaching up with the hand Dean wasn’t grabbing to rest his fingers against his cheek.

“Cas,” Dean said again, “Cas.”

“It’s okay,” Cas whispered. “My grace… I have enough… to save him.”

Dean searched Cas’ eyes desperately, trying to know what to say, how to say it. All he could think of was the lash marks across his back and how forlorn he seemed now upon the floor. He shook his head, “I can’t lose you.” Dean spluttered.

“You could never… lose me,” Cas promised, his words barely audible. “I’m a… part… of you,” Cas’ hand dropped from Dean’s cheek to his shoulder, and Dean felt a thrill of connection between them.

“Where- what will happen to you?” Dean stuttered. Cas smiled and rocked his head gently from side to side.

“I will… go on,” he answered, simply. “He only… called you that day… because I wanted him to,” Cas whispered. Dean frowned, then laughed gently. Cas sighed, then coughed. “I needed to… warn you… that I had failed…” Dean clutched his hand still tighter. Cas dropped his grip on Dean’s shoulder.

“I don’t understand; why couldn’t he kill me; Lucifer?” Dean asked.

“You and…. Jimmy… are a part of me… and I am… a part of you. He has seen your… soul. That makes you… connected too. You…love him. He loves you. Our souls are… tangled. We need to let… each other… go,” Cas explained with great effort.

“I can’t,” Dean gasped. Cas smiled softly.  

“I am… old,” Cas rubbed his thumb over Dean’s wrist. “I have lived… a long time… long enough to find the one soul worth… holding onto,” Cas whispered. “When I went into the pit for you… I was ordered. But you… changed me. You made me see who… I could be… who… I am.”

“Cas,” Dean croaked. Cas shook his head minutely

“Please, let me do this… for you..” he asked. Dean yanked his hand away so he could use them both to cradle Cas’ face. Cas was still smiling softly, his eyes twinkling despite the dazed quality in them that seemed to suggest he wasn’t entirely there, that had been present since he’d retaken Jimmy’s body in the motel days before. He’d been in Hell for so long, and it had broken him, Dean realised, but he wasn’t angry. “No,” Cas whispered. “I’m not angry.”

“Can you read my mind?” Dean asked, finally. Cas smile widened into that grin Dean loved for a moment, and it sent a wave of warmth right down to the soles of Dean’s aching feet.

“I can feel it,” Cas explained. Dean nodded, then leaned down so his head was resting against Cas’. “Dean,” Cas urged. Dean closed his eyes.

“I do love you,” he whispered.

“ _Dean,”_ Cas sighed. Dean could feel the whoosh of air against his lips. He smiled.

“For years. Hell, since you walked into that barn, dammit, Cas,” Dean groaned, and pressed his lip’s to Cas’. He tasted like soot and cold and blood, but Dean didn’t care. Cas kissed him back, gentle, unsure, unable to give as much as Dean could. After just a few seconds it ended and Dean moved back to lean his forehead to Cas’ again.

“Dean.”

“Are you afraid?” Dean asked suddenly, pulling back.

“No,” Cas whispered softly.

“Then why do you keep saying my name?”

“Because… I want you to listen,” Cas said so quietly that Dean almost had to lip read the end of his sentence. “Let me do this.” Dean closed his eyes again, then sat back on his heels. He slipped one arm under Cas and lifted him, pulling his arm and arranging him so he was hanging over his shoulder. Cas clutched with lazy fingers at the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Thank you,” he whispered. Dean said nothing, but he carried him over to where Lily was still cradling Cassie.

“I can… save him,” Cas breathed. Lily looked up in disbelief. Dean lowered Cas so he was slumped on his knees. Cas reached out to put a hand on Cassie’s forehead.

“Don’t touch him!” Lily snapped, pulling Cassie out of reach. His eyes were open and glassy, Dean realised, a line of blood down his cheek from the corner of his mouth.

“He can save him, Lily,” Dean pleaded adamantly. She glared at him for a moment, but when Cas moved out again to rest his hand on Cassie’s forehead, she didn’t pull him away. Cas eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when they opened again he was looking right at Dean.

“I’m not… lost,” Cas whispered to him. Dean gulped and nodded. “You… found me,” he explained. Dean reached out and put his hand on Cas’ cheek.

“You saved me,” Dean breathed in reply. Cas smiled.

“I’m the one… who gripped you tight… and raised you from… perdition,” Cas reminded him. Dean smiled. “You are the brightest… the most perfect star,” Cas whispered, and closed his eyes again.

Cas turned from Dean then, before Dean could find a way to talk past the lump in his throat. Dean’s hand slid from Cas cheek and rested uselessly in his own lap. Cas put his other hand on Cassie’s chest, right above where the blade was. For a moment, all that happened was Cas’ shoulders began to shake. Then a slow glow appeared underneath both the fingers on Cassie’s forehead and his chest. Slowly, slowly, the blade inched out of him, until it clattered on the floor. Cas shook more and more, but the light from his hands grew brighter and brighter, until, with a flash and a gasp, Cassie drew a shuddering breath.

Cas slumped to the ground.

And that was it.

The world did not grind to a halt.

Cas’ eyes were still half open, his lips parted slightly.

He was about as still as he’d been when Dean had found him in the rubble. There was sound and movement around him but it seemed small and far away. Dean could hear the throb of his own heart in his chest, the rush of the air in and out of his lungs. It was not the stillness of Cas' body that was wrong, it was the moving world around it. Everyone should be still and silent. The world should not keep turning. It was all so small and quiet. It didn't seem enough. No blinding lights or fares, just an end on the ground, his breaths put in Cassie's chest, and that was it.

“Momma?” Cassie croaked, sitting up in Lily’s lap. “I’m thirsty,” he complained. Lily laughed through her tears. Dean looked up at him from Castiel. His eyes were bright, but his nose was wrinkled. For some reason, Dean couldn't stop a smile from spreading over his face. Cassie smiled back, sleepy but radiant.

“Okay baby,” she whispered into his hair. “It’s all going to be okay.”


	28. Epilogue

“Uncle Deeeeaan!” Cassie hissed in an inappropriately loud whisper. Dean groaned as he rolled into his pillow, but he was smiling. “You gots to get out of bed! Santa came and- and- there are presents on my bed and the stocking is even too full and some are on the floor!” he squealed excitedly. Dean chuckled to himself and stretched.

“How many are there?” he asked him through a yawn.

“ _So_ many,” Cassie explained. Dean grinned and sat up, but grimaced when he spotted the alarm clock.

“God, Cass, couldn’t you have at least waited until six?” he groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Even in the darkness, Cassie’s incredulity at this notion was hilarious and Dean laughed and rolled his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and right into his slippers. As he grabbed his robe from where it had been slung over the back of the chair by the dresser, he touched the edge of the photograph of Castiel that was sat upon it and smiled a little thank you.

“Hurry up!” Cassie urged. It was dark out but the bells had already started ringing, the sound warm and though quiet seeming to reverberate through the floorboards.

“Sh you, there’s other people still in bed you know,” Dean reminded him. Cassie looked stricken for a moment, then his grin returned and he bobbed up and down in his dinosaur slippers. “Hey – you know we can’t open any of your presents from Santa until mom and dad are up, right?” Dean pointed out.

“But dad won’t be up for, like, a whole nother ages,” Cassie complained. Dean chuckled. He’d shot up in the past couple of months, and the pyjamas he was wearing didn’t fit him anymore. He looked very like Sam at that age, but with a grin twice as cheeky and a laugh three times as sweet.

“Well, maybe you can open one,” Dean suggested.

“One?!” Cassie groaned. “But there’s so many! How can I choose?” Cassie asked, skipping down the stairs to the middle floor. His bedroom door was open, the light pouring from it the only source in the house besides clock faces and caterpillar nightlight Lily always leaves on in the hall. Cassie’s bed is unmade, the covers flung onto the floor in excitement as he’s leapt out of bed. Dean and Lily arranged the presents like this for him, with the stocking tied upside down like it was spewing out the overflow onto the carpet.

“Why don’t you pick one out whilst I go make a coffee?” Dean said, yawning again. Cassie wasn’t really paying attention anymore, but was considering the brightly wrapped packages surrounding him, so Dean took that as a sign of agreement. He left the room. Bobby was peering out of his own doorway across the square landing, bleary eyed and groggy. “Merry Christmas, buddy,” Dean whispered to him.

“Merry Christmas,” Bobby grumbled, and peered across into Cassie’s room.

“Don’t open any presents,” Dean warned.

“You told him he could open one!” Bobby protested.

“Okay, fox ears, go pick one out. I’ll be back in a bit,” Dean allowed. Bobby grinned and turned back to his own bedroom, flicking on the light. Dean shook his head, but went over to the stairs, trotting happily round their gentle spiral and down into the huge open-plan downstairs. His slippers were loud and echoic for a moment on the marble floor, then he was on the rug. He wondered if he should put the pot of coffee on at this time, or whether he should try and convince the boys to go to back to bed for a bit before committing to getting up Sam and Lily. There was a thud upstairs and Dean chuckled to himself. He grabbed the instant coffee off the shelf and resolved that he’d put the TV in Bobby’s room on for them if they promised to be quiet, and he could creep back upstairs and nap for an hour or two himself.

Once his coffee was good and made, he crept back up the stairs again, to find Bobby sat cross-legged in the hall and Cassie balancing his chosen present on his head like a hat. The gift in Bobby’s lap was DVD shaped, convenient for Dean’s plan. He smiled at them and sat on the linen box against the bannister. “So, who’s first or are you doing it together?” Dean asked.

“Me first!” Bobby said at the exact moment Cassie said “together!”

“Together it is,” Dean replied indulgently, rolling his eyes at Bobby’s subsequent pout. “Quietly though,” he reminded them. They nodded adamantly, and glanced at each other. “Go on then!” Dean encouraged, and in a flurry of red and gold the paper was off. Bobby had the new ‘Transformers’ movie on disc, and Cassie was clutching a small box, and he was frowning at it. Dean smiled and put out his hand. “What you got there, little man?”

“Dunno,” Cassie puzzled, handing the box to Dean. It was a little difficult to open, but eventually he managed it, and Cassie was smiling at the shiny necklace inside. It was a demon protection sigil, made out of silver, hung on a thin chain. “Woah,” Cassie said, taking the box off Dean. Dean smiled. “Can I put it on now?!” Cassie asked excitedly. Dean chuckled.

“Sure, c’mere,” he fiddled with the clasp. Cassie looked down at his new shiny accessory with pride, as thought it were a medal. “It’ll keep you safe from all the bad guys,” Dean promised him. Cassie had been having nightmares, but that was only to be expected. Cassie beamed.

Dean managed to get them to settled down enough to watch Bobby’s film from his bed, though Bobby had started to eye his pile of presents again by the time Dean was slipping back out of the room. He pulled the door to, but not completely shut, and crept back upstairs. His own bedroom door was still open. He slid out of his robe and put it back over the chair, and kicked his slippers under the four-poster bed. As he crawled back under the duvet, the tuft of dark hair on the other pillows stirred, and Dean smiled.

“Hey,” Dean whispered as he looped his arms around Jimmy’s waist. Jimmy didn’t open his eyes, only shuffled in so that his head rested against Dean’s chest.

“The bed’s cold when you’re not in it,” Jimmy complained. Dean chuckled.

“Sorry,” he whispered, kissing his forehead. Jimmy sighed. “Merry Christmas,” Dean told him. Jimmy craned his neck to look at the clock and groaned.

“No. Not until 8am,” he grumbled. Dean smiled. “No sneaking off again, either,” Jimmy warned, and Dean felt his arms sneak around his waist and pull him close into their bodies were completely flush with one another. Dean hummed happily. “You’re not going anywhere,” Jimmy sighed, positioning his head on the bit of pillow available right under Dean’s chin.

“Neither are you,” Dean mumbled.

“Neither am I,” Jimmy sighed.

Dean still had what he could find was left of the trench-coat folded in a small wooden box that they kept on the piano. Cas was only in Jimmy’s head sometimes, and when he was, he liked to hear him play. Dean wondered if Cas was there now, between them, as he held Jimmy in the dark of Christmas morning. “Love you,” he mumbled, for his benefit. Just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all the wonderful readers who supported me throughout this project, and continue to do so now! Without the feedback and encouragement left by all of you wonderful people, I would not have been able to finish this. I still read through the wonderful things people have said about this story from time to time if I'm having a day where I'm finding it difficult to write, and I'm always so honored whenever I get kudos or bookmarks or even just a hit! You people are amazing <3


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